


Triplet-instability supernova

by saderaladon



Category: Marilyn Manson (Band)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Fisting, Anal Sex, Ass to Mouth, Bodily Harm Kink, Bondage, Breathplay, Burial Kink, Butt Plugs, Cock Slapping, Cruelty and Kindness, Crying, Dildos, Dirty Talk, Dirty Talk About Feces, Disturbing behaviour, Disturbing monologues, Disturbing thoughts, Disturbingly Homo, Double Anal Penetration, Drug Use, Face Slapping, Face-Fucking, Foot Fetish, Fuck I forgot about vomiting, Ginger Fish is loved, Ginger Fish is wanted, Guilt, John 5 gets a degree, John 5 is corrupted, M/M, Metaphorical Horrors, Multi, Nipple Clamps, Offensive Dirty Talk, Oh and cock gets hurt in multiple ways, Poor Ginger Fish, Public Sex, Relationship Issues, Rimming, Rough Oral Sex, Scat, Shame, Smoking, Spanking, THIS TEXT CONTAINS SHIT, Threesome - M/M/M, Tim Skold eats people alive, Tim Skold is not a role model, Vomiting, Yeah I just keep remembering things, by the way, complicated feelings, disgust, emotional torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2019-07-15
Packaged: 2020-06-28 12:20:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 40,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19812187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saderaladon/pseuds/saderaladon
Summary: The guys still go at it, but now also go crazy.





	Triplet-instability supernova

**Author's Note:**

> Hello.
> 
> Fuck me. Here we go.
> 
> This text is a sequel to all the previous Manson fics of mine. You'll absolutely have to read all of them before touching this one. I mean, kinda be careful touching it anyway.
> 
> This text is set right after this one: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19449544  
> It spans several months, let's say four or five or six.  
> There are stretches of time between the chapters, let's say days or weeks.  
> The chapters are examples of what is going on.
> 
> This text will cause you distress, believe me. I cried while writing it. I went into shock while writing it.  
> I don't know how to give proper warnings for the main plot (lol, plot) twist in this text. But, like, if you ever felt there was an ambiguity to what Tim Skold was saying, now it is resolved. Like, you thought he was poetic? He was, but he also was literal at the same time.  
> I don't want to include "unhealthy relationships" as a tag, because reasons. But, like, yeah? Kinda?  
> This text contains pretentious stylistic devices and shit. Let me reiterate it here. THIS TEXT CONTAINS SHIT. Human feces are present. And they are not just chilling out there either. Things are being done to them. The main offenders are chapters eight and thirteen.  
> This text is jolly and macabre.  
> This text is like a mixture of Santa Claus and Hannibal Lecter.
> 
> BEWARE?
> 
> And don't fucking try anything like that at home.  
> And most definitely blame everything on Tim Skold, though he will probably be getting off on that as well.
> 
> Enjoy and be euphoric.
> 
> English is not my native language. Please, do vile things to my grammar.  
> Nothing here belongs to me. Everybody here is fictional. Everybody here is criminally happy.
> 
> I also want to additionally state here that:  
> a) I am not implying that Asian food is more likely to cause a food poisoning than any other type of food. For example, I suffered a magnificent one after eating fucking pizza.  
> b) Ultra-cold stellar objects are actually pretty hot. Don't touch them.  
> c) I still don't speak Swedish, so if there is a fuck up in there, please let me know.

**Chapter one, in which a bite is grabbed.**

It takes several days for the self-inflicted bruises to fade away from Ginger's face.

It takes them two weeks to actually start doing something that has real life consequences about Ginger's house.

It takes Tim seeing Ginger go through the documents he got off his real estate agent sitting there in the kitchen with green tea and no pants on to finally go ahead with devouring him.

Tim comes into the room. He leans on the table and lights up a cigarette. Ginger sits on the couch, writing something in the notebook.

"Ginj," Tim says and Ginger lifts his head.

They look at each other for some time, Ginger putting the notebook away and Tim finishing his cigarette.

Tim breaks the orbit slowly and crosses the electron cloud between them. He touches Ginger's lips. Ginger opens his mouth. Tim pushes his fingers in. Ginger sucks them, his warm breath caressing Tim's heartless hand, his opaque eyes caressing Tim's callous face.

"I wanna do things to you," Tim says after fourteen billion years, pulling the fingers out.

"I know," Ginger says, swallowing hard. "You can."

Tim smiles and puts his fingers through his hair.

"Vile things," he says.

"I know."

Tim sits down next to Ginger, Ginger shifting to give him room and hugging his knees.

"I know," Ginger says again. "I understand that."

"Yeah?" Tim asks.

"Yeah," Ginger says. "You told me before. In Amsterdam."

"I told you I loved you," Tim says, smirking.

Ginger licks his lips and nods.

"Do you understand the specifics?" Tim asks.

"I..." Ginger says. "I am not sure."

"Do you want me to tell you?" Tim asks again.

"Yeah," Ginger says.

Tim sighs.

"I want to eat you," he says, forcing himself to look at Ginger. "I am not speaking entirely metaph—"

"I know," Ginger says.

Tim chuckles.

"Alright," he says and sighs again. "I want to eat you. I want to rip open your throat. I want to put my hand inside your rib cage. I want to pull out your intestines. I want to hurt you in any way I can. I want to turn you into nothing. I want you to let me do all of that. I want you to love me for that. I want you to be absolutely broken in the end."

"Fuck," Ginger says and shivers. "Okay."

Tim touches his teeth with his tongue.

"It fucking pains me I actually can't do most of it," he says.

Ginger laughs softly and touches his arm, his stupid reckless tentacle trembling a little.

"But I've got some ideas on how to achieve the desired end," Tim continues. "You've greatly inspired me with your fucking gratitude."

"Alright," Ginger says.

He gets up awkwardly and stands in front of Tim.

Tim tilts his head to the side.

"What do you want me to do?" Ginger asks.

Tim laughs.

"You and your fucking questions," he says. "Undress."

Ginger takes off his clothes and watches him expectantly.

Tim's teeth itch.

Tim's mouth is full of blood.

Tim's chest is a global catastrophe.

"Touch yourself the way I do," he says. "The way you like me touching you."

Tim gets served an exquisite meal during the next five minutes, Ginger running his hands over his own body, blushing and producing soft delicate noises, pulling at his own hair, pulling his mouth wide open and circling his lips, breath escaping them in audible and really pathetic bursts, pulling at his own nipples, fingers white and moving in a familiar fashion, Tim having ghost sensations in his own digits and thinking of death and destruction. Ginger drops one of his hands and lifts another one, touching his cock in a way that cannot possibly bring any release, brushing lightly, tantalazing himself, touching his throat, tilting his chin up and struggling to press harder, floundering, shuddering and sweaty, saying Tim's name, pushing it out in a breaking voice.

"You like it when I torture you," Tim says with an unpleasant smile on his face.

"Yes," Ginger says with a shattering expression on his. "Fuck, yes."

"Sweet," Tim says. "Stop."

Ginger does, shivering, his hands falling down helplessly.

"Are you afraid?" Tim asks.

"Yes," Ginger says.

"Come here," Tim says. "I'll kiss you."

Ginger bends over, Tim grabbing his hands and placing them over his own shoulders, licking into his mouth and letting him moan into his. Then Tim pushes him away.

"Hurt yourself for me," he says. "Hurt your cock like I do mine."

The meal Tim gets served next ends up requiring his participation in cooking it, Ginger squeezing himself and trying to twist his cock, forcing his hand to move, clearly not knowing how to do it, whimpering at the pain and whining, Tim thinking of Japanese hotpots, the radioactive blood starting to run out of his mouth.

"You're doing it wrong," he says, putting his hand over Ginger's. "Let me help you."

"Fuck," Ginger says and shudders. "Okay. Thank you."

A missile goes off in Tim's chest when he hears that. He collects the elementary particles of his own shattered body and picks up the chopsticks.

"Hold my shoulder," Tim says. "Look at me. We need to fool your brain, okay? You need to forget it is you who is causing the pain."

"Okay," Ginger nods.

"Which is kinda true in your case," Tim says, chuckling and crushing Ginger's hand on his cock in his own.

"Oh fuck," Ginger cries out, gripping his shoulder tighter.

"Hurts?" Tim asks.

"Yeah," Ginger says, his ragged breath hitting Tim's sneering snout.

"Good," Tim says. "Now let's twist it a little. Keep looking at me. I'm gonna guide your hand. Alright?"

"Yeah," Ginger says. "Alright."

Tim guides his hand, his sweaty, trembling hand, making him hurt himself, shoving slices of his meat in his own mouth one by one, Ginger breaking into tears, his other hand on Tim's shoulder creating a miserable drum beat.

"Here you go," Tim says, looking at his wet face. "Just like that."

"Oh fuck," Ginger says. "Tim."

"Yeah," Tim says. "Now do it yourself. Imagine that I am doing that to you, okay? Imagine that and cry for me."

"Oh God," Ginger says. "Okay."

Tim watches him do what he told him, hurting himself, damaging himself, inflicting pain on himself, biting his lips and wailing, staring at Tim, his face fracturing, his eyes full of frightening, nightmarish affection, Tim's chest full of radioactive debris, Tim's mouth full of raw flesh, Tim thinking this is the best dish he's ever tried, feeling he'll never be able to have enough of it, he'll be forever stuffing himself with it until his horrible body explodes just like it is doing now.

"Tim," Ginger says, stuttering, waves of heat rolling over Tim every time he hears his own name. "Tim. Tim. Oh God. Tim."

"A bit more," Tim says. "Just a little bit more."

"Stop," he speaks again several seconds later, catching Ginger's collapsing body. "Stand still. Breathe."

"Okay," Ginger says. "I love you."

"Don't talk," Tim says. "Breathe."

Ginger breathes for a while, Tim holding him by his arm and his hip, Ginger's sweaty hands on his shoulders.

"Let me see," Tim says, nudging him up. "Show me your cock."

Ginger straightens up, swaying, tears still running down his face, and lets Tim touch himself, Tim running his finger carefully over the tender skin.

"Was it too much?" he inquires, looking up at Ginger. "I mean, you are a bit softer than I am."

Ginger shudders, letting out a hysterical laugh.

"No," he says, shaking his head. "It's okay. I think."

"Alright," Tim says, nodding. "Come closer. I want dessert."

Ginger makes a step forward and Tim licks the tip of his cock, holding him by the hips, sticking his tongue out, mouthing at him.

"Want you to come now," Tim says, lifting his head. "Want you to come and tell me what you are, okay? Will you do that for me?"

"I..." Ginger starts, voice uncertain.

"You know what you are, Ginger," Tim says, licking his cock again. "Come on. Come in my hungry trap. Swim into it yourself."

"Okay," Ginger says.

Tim smiles and takes his cock into his mouth, opening his hungry trap wide, sucking him off, swallowing him down, swallowing him whole, swallowing his frightening, nightmarish words he pushes out of himself.

"Oh fuck," Ginger says, moaning pathetically. "I am your food, Tim."

"Oh my God," Ginger says, shaking like an epileptic. "I am just your food, Tim."

Tim growls happily around him, his jaws crushing Ginger's body, his teeth piercing his flesh and breaking his bones, his throat collapsing with the flow of blood, Ginger coming in his mouth, turning into nothing, breaking and falling down, Tim grabbing him and pulling him closer, devouring his soft warm delicious lips, pressing his gooey hand over his own cock, pressing hard, coming in his pants, coming with a blast, turning into a ravenous ball of nuclear gas, light, deadly and all-consuming.

"You wanna smoke?" Tim asks, towering over the main ingredient of his magnificent supper spread on the bed, a pile of jelly covered in salt and hiccuping now and then.

"Yeah," Ginger says, tucking his wet hair behind his ear. "And a beer. Do we have beer?"

"Of course," Tim says, nodding. "Give me a sec."

They lie together, sharing the bottle and filling the room with smoke, Tim running his palm over Ginger's vertebrae that make him want to do despicable things, Ginger propped on his elbows and shivering under his touch.

"Tim," Ginger says, turning his head to look at him.

"What?"

"What else are you gonna do?" Ginger asks.

Tim chuckles.

"That eager to be eaten, ha?" he says, taking a swig.

"Fuck off," Ginger says and gulps. "I just... I wanna know."

"Okay," Tim says. "Sure."

He lights up another cigarette.

"We'll need to balance this thing out," he says. "So I'll try to be unbelievably nice to you on some occasions."

Ginger offers him a weak smile.

"And for most of the time I'll be just the regular pushy bastard we all know and love," Tim continues. "But for the meal time you'll just do whatever I tell you. You'll be my food."

Ginger swallows hard.

"And I'll hurt you," Tim says. "And you'll hurt yourself for me too. Like today. We'll run some tests. See how much you can take. I'll show you how to do it properly. That face slapping you did back then was fucking pathetic."

Ginger laughs nervously.

"Fuck you," he says. "It fucking hurt."

Tim smirks.

"And we'll be making you uncomfortable," he continues. " _A lot._ You'll have to tell me what you find the most embarrassing. You'll have to tell me everything you've been hiding from me."

Ginger shivers.

"You'll be squirming for me all the time," Tim adds, puffing out the smoke. "And crying. Fuck, I love you crying because of me."

"God," Ginger says. "Okay."

"And be ready to eat a lot of squid," Tim says. "I have no fucking idea how else to deal with that cannibalistic bullshit I have in my head."

"You could..." Ginger starts uncertainly.

"What?" Tim asks, squinting at him. "You have your own propostions now?"

"Fuck you," Ginger says. "You could... You could cut me or something. Fuck."

"Meh," Tim says. "Thought of it. Boring. Not enough. I want to swallow you whole. Cutting is like eating breadcrumbs."

Ginger shakes with laughter and Tim hugs him, combing his hair and then cupping his face.

"You, on the other hand, will not be denied your favorite delicacy," Tim says, touching his lips. "And I'll sure as hell join you in gorging on it."

Ginger closes his eyes.

"You'll be eating your shit for me," Tim says, pushing his fingers in his mouth. "Do you like the sound of that?"

"Fuck," Ginger says, slurring his words. "I..."

"Come on, you can tell me," Tim says. "I've fucking told you I want to rip open your throat. That's like prison time. Eating some purely imaginary shit is nothing compared to that. It's just a quirk."

Ginger moans.

"Come on," Tim insists. "You like sucking your filth off me, don't you?"

"Fuck," Ginger says, exhaling sharply. "Yes."

Tim chuckles and kisses him.

"Damn, you're fucking tasty when you're like that," he says, running his fingers over Ginger's wet lips again. "Not as tasty as your filth, of course..."

"Fuck," Ginger says, shaking a little. "Tim, it's fucking... I am fucking..."

"Stop with this nonsense," Tim says, grabbing him by the chin. "I am not disgusted by you. It's dumb. There's nothing fucking wrong with you. You're a fucking squid jelly, but that's alright."

Ginger whines through his teeth.

"I am afraid you—"

"Fuck," Tim says. "I won't. Well, if I will, just don't listen to me. Don't listen to that bastard. Shut him up. Throw him out of the house. Put him in a cage where he belongs. Leave him to rot. John'll help you. Okay?"

"Okay," Ginger says. "Can you give me the bottle?"

"Sure," Tim says, passing the beer to him and watching him drink.

"Is this all?" Ginger asks a few seconds later.

Tim laughs.

"God, no," he says. "I just don't fucking know what to do with my other brilliant ideas. They don't seem to have any real life application. I mean, I can maybe tell you exactly what I want to do to your fucking spine column that you absolutely shouldn't have. But it's not like I can actually pull it out."

"But you would?" Ginger asks, stuttering.

"Shut up," Tim says. "Of course I would. I'm fucking sick."

Ginger puts his tender loving tentacle on his hand and shivers.

"I'd let you," he whispers, his voice breaking. "Fuck. I love you, Tim. Fuck."

"Hey, stop crying," Tim says. "I am not hard right now. Don't waste this perfectly good product on fucking pillow talk."

"Fuck you," Ginger says, his disobedient eyes still going wet.

"Come here," Tim says and licks the tears off his face. "You know that I love you too. Just in an ugly way."

**Chapter two, in which inputs are used in the production of value and the surplus product accrues to the society at large.**

"No, first show me everything you tried," Tim says, taking a drag. "Then you can have your favorite all fours."

John giggles and falls on the bed, lifting his legs and grabbing at the dildo. He bites his lipstick covered lips and pushes it in, staring at Tim, beaming with exaltation. He fucks himself with the tentacle cock for some seconds, while Tim pours lube into the fleshjack.

"Give it to me already," John demands.

Tim chuckles.

"So you do it with both things from the start?" he asks, handing the requested item over.

"Yeah," John says, getting his cock in and moaning. "Of course."

Tim hums.

"I would've waited. Will power training, you know."

John laughs.

Tim watches him jerking off, both of John's hands moving slowly.

"Looks nice," he says, puffing out the smoke. "Really raunchy. I like it."

"Fuck," John says, letting out a wet breath. "My legs get tired like this."

"Figures," Tim says. "Okay, what else? Riding?"

"Yeah," John says, nodding. "Just a second."

He sits up, movements a bit jittery, and starts rocking his hips, fucking himself on the dildo, gripping the fleshjack tight.

Tim touches his teeth with his tongue.

"That's what I would do," he says. "Free hand. Many benefits."

John whines.

"You disagree?"

"Fuck," John says. "Stop talking."

"I came here to oversee the proceedings," Tim says, smirking. "I have questions that need answering."

"Fuck," John says, panting. "I get distracted. By the rhythms."

"Oh," Tim says.

"Yeah," John says, opening his eyes and squinting at him. "And now I'm getting distracted by you."

Tim puts out his cigarette.

"Okay," he says. "Hands and knees then?"

John looks ready to jump and clap his hands, when he hears that, but then, of course, just changes his position, presenting Tim with a view of his stretched hole with a tentacle dildo stuck in it.

Tim whistles.

"That's not bad either," he says. "Come on, give us a bit of a show here."

"Fuck off," John says and then presses his head into the pillow, starting to fuck himself, muttering something about anal annihilation, moving the fleshjack on his cock, giving a damn good show despite his recent reservations.

Tim starts filling the room with radioactive blood really fast.

He clenches his fists.

"Want help?" he inquires, coming closer.

John moans, both his hands moving faster.

"I can spank you," he offers.

John moans again, arching his back even more.

"That a yes?" Tim asks, grinning.

He slaps John's cheeks, John jumping every time and producing obscene noises, sweet and muffled by the pillow, picking up the pace and starting to shake. When Tim is satisfied with the color he puts both of his hands on his cheeks and pulls them wide apart, pressing his fingers into the skin.

"Come for me," he says. "Come on Ginger's severed tentacle."

John comes twenty seconds later, Tim looking at his ass, gritting his teeth, John clenching and shuddering, sweaty and overstimulated. He pulls out the dildo and Tim touches his hole.

"I really feel like kissing right now," he says, holding John by his hips.

John generates a noise that Tim rightly interprets as meaning "you can, but only as long as I say so", licking into John for a short while, palming his own cock and feeling very much in his element, until John starts wriggling.

"Want me to amuse you by marine animal maltreatment?" Tim asks, straightening up.

John flips over, pulling the fleshjack off and throwing it away, pushing the wet hair off his face and giving Tim a filthy smile that Tim rightly interprets as being a synonym for the noise he heard earlier and starts torturing his cock, sticking his other hand in his trap, showing John his teeth, until John says "come here", licking his lips, Tim accepting the invitation and coming in John's mouth, his hand in John's hair, pressing on his head.

"This little project of yours earned my approvement," Tim says, lighting up a cigarette afterwards, John gorging on cookies, feet in the air, face blissful. "But I have several propositions."

"Yeah?"

"How about we replace Ginger's tentacle with my cock?"

John nods enthusiastically.

"Okay," Tim says, exhaling the smoke. "And how about you get to suck Ginger's from the very start too? For greater depravity."

John seems to be in agreement with him on that notion as well.

"Great," Tim says. "And how about we then do the same to me? But with cheerful hopping and cruel gagging. For even more sinful results."

John expresses his readiness to give an angry helping hand.

"Awesome," Tim says. "And how about for the final part we do the same to Ginj? Put him on his back. Get several other sensitive body parts involved. For absolute degeneracy."

John hugs him, demonstrating commendable attitude towards criticism.

They make the necessary calls and draft the schedule.

The first amendment is made the very next day, John handing over the fleshjask to Tim and picking up a couple of guitars, both of them driving back to Tim's house and trapping the groaning squid between their impatient bodies when he is still in bed, reading philosophy bullshit in a highly inappropriate attire that Tim pulls off him with nuclear determination, while John takes his position and applies his nimble magical fingers to good use, promptly stretching himself and expediting debauchery greatly.

Tim fucks his hole, rubbing it with his heartless fingers as well, figuring it is never late to apply even more efforts and do your job even better, John matching his agonizingly slow speed with his hand on the fleshjack and moaning around Ginger's cock, Ginger staring at John's beautiful and no doubt happy face with his mouth agape, clearly delighted to have been invited to participate in such an enterprise.

Then Tim puts in additional hours and gives incentives to other workers, sticking his heartless fingers inside John along his angry cock, John coming in a heartbeat, clenching around both stimuluses and inspiring Tim to become even more of a workaholic, his heartless fingers of his other hand ending up in his own mouth and bitten, while Tim himself comes in John's pulsing hole, John doing a double shift and sucking Ginger to completion, Ginger returning from his arboreal vacation and adding his own load by coming down John's throat and showing praiseworthy initiative by spicing up his own squirming, pulling at his nipples and staring at Tim's approbatory face.

Tim feels ready to continue working his ass and his other body parts off for the proletariat as soon as machinery is operational again, but evil capitalist forces drag him into the studio, summoning him with their raspy voice and keeping him in that sweatshop till it is late evening. When he comes back home it turns out that his collaborators did a bit of a side job, engaging in sugary sixty nining in his own bed just an hour before his arrival. Tim threatens to leave the guild for such a betrayal, but changes his mind in the morning, Ginger waking him up with his wrench wedged between Tim's thighs, Tim again filling with fervor and getting energized even more, when John promises he'll slap him as well before choking him on his cock.

They make changes to their original plan on the fly, Tim quickly seeing that cheerful hopping doesn't go well with working the delicate tool in John's possession, so they switch departments, moving to the floor, and reallocate responsibilities, Tim just standing on his knees, spine curved, ass awkwardly tilted backwards, head turned up, pumping his own cock with the fleshjack, a lazy drone between two busy bees, Ginger doing the heavy lifting after some motivational speaking done by John, fucking into him, holding him in place by his shoulders, singing sea shanties in his ear, John being the soul of the craft union, first slapping Tim's fervent face, compensating for still somewhat poor skills with passionate service and doing long hours, and then fucking his trap, towering over him, giving him his heavenly cruel guidance and really detailed instructions.

Tim ends up being the rising star of their venture, coming like a motherfucker, thinking he found his path in life, wishing to slave away for this corporation till the day he dies at the desk choking on an energy drink, staying in the office after his shift is over, standing there like a thermonuclear anvil, letting the blacksmiths forge their swords, Ginger finishing with the task before John, coming boiling hot in Tim's accommodating ass, John joining him promptly like a good workfellow, spilling his stimulating junk down Tim's throat fucked raw.

Tim feels ready to do some hammering of his own as soon as iron gets sufficiently hot, but they decide to postpone the final part of their shady escapade till the next day, on account of Tim losing his voice and thus becoming useless as an exploiter, unable to whip his verbal lashes in case they are needed.

They get on with hard labor once Tim is capable of providing inhumane treatment again, Ginger spreading his legs and letting him apply his heartless instruments, Tim giving orders and drawing unfair comparisons to inspire the underclass to take matters in their own hands, John being a vocal leader of this uprising, inciting Ginger with praise and enticing him with his industrious fingers, until the poor decide that urgent action is indeed needed.

Tim fucks Ginger on his back, standing on the floor, thrusting into him with his nuclear powered gear, Ginger's foot in his mouth, Ginger's other foot on his shoulder, John's appliance between Ginger's soft warm lips, John's highly adept hands tuning the most sensitive equipment, pulling gently at the clamps on his nipples, Ginger himself making heroic efforts for the benefits of humanity, moving his shaking hand with the fleshjack in it, jerking off slowly and enjoying his day off in the forest once again.

Ginger comes crashing like the economy in a worldwide crisis, convulsing and clenching and arching and quivering, greatly encouraged by all the friendly assistance of the craft union, Tim fucking him through his orgasm and then some more, demanding that John don't abandon his post either, the final stage being a two-man job, John complying in the spirit of joint operations, rocking his hips and coming in Ginger's wailing mouth, kissing him right after that while Tim closes the deal.

Tim shares his thoughts at the conference they conduct in bed, saying that John's handicraft industry has achived remarkable success, turning into a conglomerate lead by him, a truly visionary CEO. John awards him with a labor medal, saying that he'll be willing to slave away under him again, if Tim decides to expand the company, Tim feeling very inspired by his speech, but saying they might need to move onto another project, citing the lack of opportunities for creative action in this area as the reason. Ginger's mortal remains start objecting at that, saying that the accounting department has done some calculating, applying the wonders of combinatorics to the variables involved, stating they haven't exhausted all the possibilities and shutting up abruptly in the middle of the sentence, insisting they were only talking about the math and not in the least suggesting to implement all the solutions.

Their next week is very busy and very productive.

**Chapter three, in which the universe is still opaque.**

"What's up?" Tim asks, picking up the phone.

He doesn't get an answer. All he hears is silence.

"John?" Tim asks, walking out of the room. "Are you there?"

"I..." somebody who doesn't really sound like John says.

"What's the matter?" Tim asks again, closing the door behind him.

"Are you at the studio?" John asks as well in a jittery voice.

"Yeah," Tim says. "Is something wrong?"

"I... Can you come to my place?"

"Sure," Tim says. "If you tell me what's going on."

"I... Fuck, I fucked up," John spits out.

"How did you fuck up?" Tim inquires, feeling the familiar tingling sensation of premonition running over his skin.

"Fuck," John says. "Ginj... Ginj—"

"Did he freak out again?"

"Yes. Fuck. I freaked him out."

Tim rubs his face.

"I sincerely doubt that," he says. "Alright, I'll be there as soon as I can. Drag him out of that bathroom for me, okay?"

"Okay," John says. "Fuck, okay. Thank you."

Somebody who opens the door doesn't look like John either, and not only in the sense of his unusually lacking in feathers attire.

"I'm sorry," that person says.

"Don't kill me," that person says.

Tim pushes him inside the house.

"Shut up," he says. "Where's he?"

"In the room," John says. "He says he doesn't want to talk about it. Fuck."

Tim sighs.

"Alright," he says. "Now stop dancing here and tell me what happened. We'll see who needs to get killed."

"Fuck," John says and bites his lip. "We were fucking..."

"I kinda understand that," Tim says. "Is it the chitchat problem? I thought that was going well."

"No," John says. "Fuck. He came and I pulled out and he... Fucking hell. He asked me if I wanted him to suck me off. And I... I... Fuck, I like... I looked down and..."

"You looked down and a thought crossed your mind that probably it is a good idea to wipe your cock before stuffing his mouth with it, got it," Tim says, shaking his head.

"Fuck, yes," John says, clenching his fists. "I wasn't... Fuck, please don't kill me. I was just—"

"You were extremely sensible given the situation and acted like a responsible person instead of a horny unreasonable asshole," Tim says. "Which is what I would've done. You sure you wanna continue shaking like an idiot here?"

"Fuck," John says.

"Come here," Tim says, and they hug.

"You won't kill me?" John asks.

"Of course not," Tim says. "I'll kill Ginj."

"Fuck, Tim," John says, pulling away. "It's not his fa—"

Tim snorts.

"Of course it's his fault," Tim says, grabbing John by the arm. "Dumb motherfucker. Come on, let's go."

The dumb motherfucker sits on the couch in the room in his natural state, looking miserable and pathetic.

 _Fucking shitmess_ , Tim thinks.

"The fuck, Ginj?" Tim asks, towering over him. "Why are you ruining John's orgasm again? Why are you ruining my amazing sugary chitchat solution I devised for you two? Why are you fucking failing me again?"

"Fuck off, Tim," Ginger says. "I said I didn't want to talk about it."

 _Disrespectful fucking food_ , Tim thinks and then quickly supresses the thought, glancing at John, figuring it is not a good idea to accidentally spill his inner shit here, collecting the niceness.

He sighs.

"Come on," he says, pulling Ginger up. "Let's go lie down and whisper in bed like idiots."

They lie down and whisper in bed like idiots, John hugging Ginger, spooning him from behind, and Tim holding his hand, looking at his moronic face and wearing an unpleasant expression on his own, operating his biological weaponry carefully and making him crack, Ginger narrating his fucked up thinking process and his pitiful subsequent behaviour to him and relaxing gradually.

"So what that he looked down?" Tim asks. "John's not that well acquainted with your shit as I am. He hasn't seen it as often. Do you expect him to react as fast as I do? Come on, that's ridiculous. He just needed some time to think what he actually wanted to do with your delicious filth."

"Fuck off," Ginger says and laughs softly. "Look, I said I was sorry. I am fucked up, alright?"

"Fuck, Ginj," John says, placing his hand on his shoulder and turning his head. "You are not fucked up. You have nothing to be sorry about."

Ginger sighs, Tim looking at his throat and getting momentarily distracted.

"You're hot," John continues. "I love you. I just..."

"He just listened to what his parents told him about proper hygiene much more attentively than we did, Ginj," Tim interrupts him. "Have you seen him brush his teeth? It's like a half an hour oral exercise."

"Fuck off," John says, laughing.

Ginger sighs again.

"I know," he says. "I got it. Can we stop with this now?"

"Sure, if you promise me you won't be freaking out with John anymore," Tim says. "Like, fuck with your eyes closed next time, alright? And try to think of something else than your favorite shit. I mean, if you want that, you can always come to me. You know where I live."

"Fuck, Tim," John says. "It's _your_ favorite shit."

"Shut up," Tim says. "Ginj?"

"Yeah?" Ginger asks, looking at the ceiling.

"Promise me you won't be freaking out," Tim says, staring at his throat. "Will you do that for me?"

"Okay," Ginger says, swallowing hard. "I'll try."

"Awesome," Tim says, sitting up. "Now please suck each other's faces and drown me in your syrup. Make my trip here worth something."

Tim watches the stupid bastards suck each other's faces, Ginger fingering John and jerking him off, compensating for his earlier shit related failure to make him orgasm, John moaning obscenely and telling Ginger he loves him, Tim drowning in their syrup, slapping his own cock and being a horny unreasonable asshole, being a dumb bloodthirsty shark, paying very little attention to Ginger's nervousness or rather paying a wrong type of attention to it, entertaining certain disturbing thoughts and being oblivious to other, maybe even more disturbing ones, being an idiot.

A few days later Tim watches Ginger sucking his own cock, eating his filth for him, crying for him, turning into nothing for him, being his food, Tim drowning in his blood and slapping his face and being a certified monster, being a predator swallowing its prey, paying no attention to anything but his own hunger and Ginger's fucked up readiness to satisfy it, being oblivious to the future that is not long in coming, being bad at premonition, being an idiot.

**Chapter four, in which a traditional German meat product is cooked by a skillfull chef who uses rather exotic ingredients and adds a bit of seasoning as well.**

"Nah," Tim says, putting his guitar away. "I have a better idea."

"What idea?" John asks, still holding his.

"How about I get you all tied up and whining instead?"

John displays a somewhat unusual lack of enthusiasm.

Tim bares his teeth.

"What? Have I discouraged you that much from your favorite kink?" he asks. "Come on. I told you I'd never do that again."

"Fuck you," John says. "Okay. But I want something new."

"Sure," Tim nods. "I am all for something new. Let's go look at pictures and choose something really weird."

He takes a swig from his beer and lights up a cigarette, looking at John's beautiful agitated back, John sitting at his computer and scrolling down the page.

"Anything interesting?" he asks, coming closer and bending over his shoulder.

"Donno," John says. "They kinda don't look realistic."

"That one should be doable," Tim says, pointing at the picture. "That one as well. Even that one is possible."

John giggles.

"This one is fucking ridiculous," he says. "God."

"It fucking is," Tim says, chuckling too. "Wanna try?"

John shivers and looks at him over his shoulder, licking his lips.

"Yeah," he says.

Tim smirks.

Tim hunts for the black rope around John's house, while John stretches himself with his magical fingers and whines on the bed. Then, when he finally finds it, he yet again turns John in a bizarre dephormed creature, John bent in half upside down, his ass up in the air, his wrists tied to his ankles, his cock hanging over his beautiful panting face, John himself giving Tim middle fingers and demanding of him to get on with it, giggling like a complete idiot, Tim cracking up as well, thoroughly enjoying their fucked up arrangement.

"Fucking shrimp," he says, moving John closer to the back of the bed and gripping the board with his hand, looming above him with a massive shark grin on his face, the mattress crumpling under his feet. "You look like a shrimp, John. Who knew you too were of the sea all along."

"Fuck off," John says, sticking his tongue out at him and then blushing, probably thinking of the same sadly impossible oral acrobatics this action inspires Tim to consider.

Tim chuckles, keeping his cock sucking comment to himself and bending instead, pushing his cock in John's hole smeared in lube, feeling very fond of the ludicrous position, but wondering if his old broken back and his old grumpy legs can be trusted with such an exercise. Then John grants him a lewd wanton moan, Tim at once forgetting all doubt and starting to fuck him in earnest, however uncomfortable and laughable their coordinates are, working the body parts he didn't even know he had, John looking up at him, face flushed, hair a sweaty mess, licking his lips and producing his idiotic ass demolition talk, thoroughly enjoying his own depravity.

 _Kinky motherfucking shrimp_ , Tim thinks, thrusting into him the best way he possibly can, moving like a convulsing half-wit, straining his old decrepit body, irradiated blood running out of his smirking mouth.

He briefly thinks of lending John a helping hand and jerking him off, but then decides against it, knowing full well he'll be forced to stop with the workout after his spoiled whining guitar jerk comes, using that hand to pull his trap wide open instead, showing John his teeth, somewhat belatedly realizing that their spatial location will no doubt temporarily make gravity, his least favorite fundamental force, into his most beloved one, grinning inwardly, putting his warhead of a heart into his awkward jolts, staring at John's excited visage, John seemingly ignorant of this scientific discovery of his, even though the rather obvious clue is also staring John right in the face, Tim really anticipating the beginning of the Age of Enlightenment.

He doesn't have to wait for long, John's own sexual degeneracy and Tim's locomotive encouragment of it doing their job, John moaning, closing his eyes and clenching around Tim's cock, Tim biting his own hand hard, both to achieve some orgasming of his own and to silence the silly laughter that starts bursting out of him the moment John attends the class in physics, yelping and cursing and subsequently spitting and hissing and wrinkling his beautiful come covered face, Tim adding his own portion of the same substance right away, his junk, also a slave of gravitational attraction, running down John's beautiful twisted body as well, joining forces with John's in dipping the shrimp in sauce, John himself joining Tim in laughing his ass off after a few seconds, shouting at him and requesting to know in very impolite terms if Tim knew that would happen, then spitting and hissing again, Tim informing him that yes, but not right away, citing being a pretty dope shark himself, John asking why he didn't tell him, Tim wondering out loud since when John started to feel aversion to come and surprises, John giving him the middle fingers again, demanding his immediate release and Tim's lifelong servitude and Tim's own graceless humiliation, Tim readily agreeing to follow all of his commandments, urging him to find even more ridiculous bondage position and adding that he will be willing to pay for the new equipment if it is needed to bestow on him infinite cruel pleasures he most definitely earned today.

"Hey, squid," Tim says, getting through the door of his own house several hours later. "Turn on my computer, will you? I want to show you something."

He drags Ginger to stand right beside him, sitting at his computer and opening the page with weird pictures again, telling him of his and John's recent adventures, going into great detail, saying he feels very energized by the experience, claiming it brought real passion into his wretched heart, Ginger biting his lips and silently waiting for what they both know is coming, Tim's chest filling with terrible deadly fluttering at the mere thought. Once Tim is sure Ginger saw all the options, he turns around and pulls his awesome cock out of his boxers, telling Ginger to choose what kind of an idiot _he_ wants to look like for Tim's legitimate entertainment he so recklessly agreed to be the main subject of, providing him with additional motivation to accept his fate by sloppily blowing him right there and then, stating beforehand that if he doesn't hear what image Ginger finds the most degrading, excluding the absurd one they've picked out with John, before he finishes his task, they'll just go through them one by one, Ginger coming in his bloodthirsty trap with his name and "nine" on his lips.

"Oh, the yoga one?" Tim asks, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and looking at the shuddering mess in front of him. "Interesting. I'll probably need to rub your back for hours after that, but sure, we can try."

They try the very next day, Tim ransacking the house looking for old rope, cheering when he finally locates not only it, but also the shiny butt plug they bought in Amsterdam, figuring it is always a good idea to add some ginger to his Ginger meal, rubbing Ginger's capitulated body and turning him into jelly before putting him in a really uncomfortable hogtie. Tim ties his wrists to his ankles, spreading his legs, Ginger's spine arching miserably, and sticks the plug in his hole, screwing it in with his heartless hands after smearing it with lube. He sits on his heels in front of Ginger after he's done, admiring his blushing, panting face and lighting up a cigarette.

"Wanna know what I am going do to you?" he asks, tucking his hair behind his ear and smiling at him with a tender expression of a ruthless predator on his snout.

Ginger swallows hard.

"Okay," he says. "Yeah."

"First I'll suck your toes and you'll suck my cock," Tim says, puffing out the smoke. "We'll make you squirm, alright? Don't try to fuck the mattress, though."

"I won't," Ginger says, licking his lips.

Tim offers him the cigarette and he takes a drag.

"Then I'll fuck your dirty hole with the plug," Tim continues. "Pull at your hair and everything. Look at your fucking vertebrae you shouldn't have. Tell you what I feel like doing to correct for this biological mistake. And you'll come like that, alright? You'll clench for me. Howl for me. Deal?"

"Fuck," Ginger says, closing his eyes for a second. "Alright. God."

Tim chuckles.

"Then you'll suck the plug," he goes on, inhaling the smoke. "Are you in the mood for shit? I'll kiss you afterwards, of course. Will you eat your filth for me?"

"I... Fuck, yes. Yes, I will," Ginger says, shivering.

"Will you cry for me as well?" Tim inquires, offering him the cigarette again.

Ginger takes a drag and shivers one more time.

"Fuck, Tim. Yes. Yes, I will. Fuck."

"Sweet," Tim says, nodding. "I"ll fuck your accommodating face after that. Come down your fucking throat you'll let me rip open one day. Probably slap my cock before that. You'll watch, okay? You'll watch and learn from an expert. Your fucking skills are still laughable."

"Okay," Ginger says, looking at him with devotion Tim will never ever reject anymore. "Fuck, okay."

"Then I'll untie you and we'll do the cuddly bullshit you allow me all of these horrors for," Tim says, looking at him with cruelty he will never ever supress either. "You'll tell me how much you love me for being a monster to you. I can confess some of my feelings too, if you want."

Ginger manages a broken laugh. Tim smirks and stands up.

"Tell me if your back starts hurting, though," he remarks. "We don't want that. Snort or something if your amenable mouth is occupied. Give me the middle finger. I'll think of some other way to finish you off."

"Sure," Ginger says, and Tim shoves his cock between his lips, creating the glorious future he's just described.

When it is over, he rubs Ginger's gooey half-eaten body for hours.

Two days later John shows Tim a weird picture of his own, saying this is exactly what he wants to be done to him, and sadly it is not the inverted pentagram one Tim was hoping to suffer through, but it looks just idiotic enough for Tim to feel energized yet again and seems to provide more oppportunities to be thoroughly fucked than being a victim of a satanic ritual hanged up upside down does, however attractive that image is.

John's enthusiasm he readily displays when Tim agrees with "hell yeah" on his lips, jumping and clapping his genuine body parts and then hugging Ginger, who nods like a martyr, giving John his reluctant support after calling both of them sick fucks, shivering and obviously reminiscent of his own predicament, makes Tim very eager to get tied up and whining right that second, so he drives to the shop instead of conducting the business online to expedite the process and buys the necessary equipment that he himself installs, Ginger reading the manual out loud and blushing, John giggling obnoxiously and getting in the way.

After some shameful gymnastics on his part and much needed help of the four hands he gets folded in half and suspended in the air, looking at the world with changed spatial orientation and inviting John to smoke this shark jamon already, John standing on his knees in front of him, gratifying him with a view of his cock, his magical fingers stretching his hole, Ginger's tender tentacles touching his surprisingly relaxed shoulders and then pulling his head backwards and stuffing his mouth with cock after Tim demands in very impolite terms he do just that, because John is already pushing inside him and Tim figures his currently low-lying front entrance deserves the same treatment as his unusually elevated back door, being just as welcoming and as accommodating.

His oral performance turns out not to be his best one and actually pretty embarrassing and begging for later compensation, which he, of course, provides repeatedly and with animation, sucking Ginger off every day for the next week with and without John's angry helping hand on his nape. Ginger comes shaking anyway, Tim dragging his wide open trap all over his cock, John's thrusts bringing stuttering rhythms to his mopping activities, and John comes shaking as well, whining about his legs afterwards and moaning obscenely in the process, Tim's sexual depravity encouraging him just as much as his own. Tim also comes shaking, on account of dangling there like an unsteady moron and because of camaraderie, his degenerate shark snout pressed into Ginger's spent cock and his degenerate ass up in the air pounded by the ungrateful guitar jerk he likes spoiling so much.

The gymnastics he has to perform to become an upstanding person once again turn out to be even more disgraceful, John not in any hurry to help him this time, Ginger just useless as always and Tim being thoroughly fucked just like he thought he would be, but in the end he figures John's favorite kink is worth more exploration despite the complexity of the schemes involved, lying on the bed in a pile of limbs and sneering with a cigarette between his blood covered teeth.

**Chapter five, in which a sinful interrogation yields unsettling results that are hard to swallow even for the creature who practises that art professionally.**

Tim wakes up slowly, a familiar smell of tobacco in his nose, chunks of his bizarre dreams still floating in his mind, his body gradually reappearing, as wooden as always.

"Ginj," he says, groaning. "Flip me over."

He is presented with Ginger's pale face in a few seconds. He grabs at the cigarette he's smoking and takes a drag. Ginger smiles and puts away the book he's been reading.

"Fucking thirsty," Tim says, giving the cigarette back to him.

"I can bring you some water," Ginger says, making the move to sit up.

"Lie the fuck down," Tim says, making the same move himself. "I'll get it. I need a leak anyway. You want anything?"

Ginger shakes his head, so Tim gets up and leaves the room to bring about the hydrological cycle.

He falls on the bed next to Ginger again five minutes later, lighting up another cigarette and putting his hand in his messy hair.

"How wasted was I?" he asks. "I can't remember a single thing after we got out of that car."

Ginger laughs.

They smoke for a bit, sharing the cigarette.

"We're going to look at that house with the fucked up roof today, right?" Tim asks, putting it out. "Or is it tomorrow?"

"It's today," Ginger says.

"Fuck, okay," Tim says. "When?"

"In three hours or something," Ginger says. "It's still early."

"Oh," Tim says. "Magic."

Ginger puts his tender loving tentacles around him.

"You hungry?" Tim asks.

"Not really," Ginger says.

"Cool," Tim says. "I am not much of a chef right now. We'll eat something before all that house business, alright?"

"Sure."

Tim puts his heartless hand on Ginger's spine with impossible vertebrae.

"I am, by the way," he says.

"What?"

"Hungry."

"Oh."

"I am thinking, maybe, some pathetic stumbling?" he says, propping himself on his elbows. "I came up with an awkward pose for you to fuck your hole on me like a week ago. Have been meaning to try ever since."

Ginger shivers.

"And it can be augmented with some pain," Tim adds. "Feel like breathing new life into me?"

Ginger sits up slowly and looks at him.

"Okay," he says and nods. "Of course."

 _Magic indeed_ , Tim thinks.

"Alright, let's see how many times you'll have to try to get me in," Tim says with a nasty smirk, holding his cock at the base, looking at Ginger standing on his heels in front of him, his hands on the mattress behind his back, his hips lifted up, his face red and miserable and his cock awesome and up in the air. "Count out loud, will you?"

"Four's a good number," Tim says with a truly obnoxious smirk, grabbing at the cigarette package and licking his teeth, looking at Ginger impaled on him, sweaty and shivering, inspiring a desire for an immediate tactical assault with a massive explosive yield that Tim feels like ordering any second. "Does it hurt though?"

"Fuck," Ginger says. "No. Maybe just a little."

"Hm," Tim says, lighting up a cigarette. "Too bad. I'll need to stop with the stretching earlier next time then."

Ginger awards him with a quiet, but really embarrassing sound.

"Come on," Tim says, jerking his hips up. "Start fucking yourself. But slowly. And don't break my fucking cock. I want it cut off, not bent into a question mark."

Ginger starts moving, his muscles strained, his lips parted, his vocal cords putting him to shame, Tim developing deep affection to their flapping and to Ginger's flapping as well, the missiles turning their noses to the sky, following the order he executed.

"Feeling like an idiot yet?" he asks, looking at Ginger's swaying cock with commitment, dedication and a shark sneer on his face.

"God," Ginger says, biting his lips and looking at Tim's sneering face with similar emotions. "Yes."

"Sweet," Tim says. "How big of an idiot though? Like, give me a rating. Compared to other amazing arrangements of mine."

Ginger whines and his hips stutter.

"No, belay that," Tim hurries out, getting an even better idea and spitting blood out of his mouth. "Tell me which one you find the most embarrassing?"

Tim puts out the cigarette and listens to Ginger describe one of the previous amazing arrangements of his that was somewhat hard on both his and Ginger's legs, yet moves to the top of his repetition list right that second, and thinks they should probably number them, because Ginger's monologue takes too long to finish, interrupted by his swearing and his chanting of Tim's name and by other delightful sounds he makes, all the while stumbling pathetically just like Tim requested on Tim's cock that Tim feels is much closer to completion than the cruel questioning he moves to the top of his priority list right that second as well.

"Get off me for a bit," he says, once Ginger stops producing the units of speech and goes back to just moaning.

Ginger complies, flapping his vocal cords again and flapping like a flag himself.

"What are you most ashamed of in general?" Tim inquires, rubbing the tip of Ginger's awesome cock and wondering what is more illegal, his fucking interview or Ginger's delectable reaction to it.

"Is it the shit eating?" Tim asks again, having swallowed Ginger's unlawful response and still not feeling full, feeling like swallowing much, much more.

He chews on what he gets next as well.

"Come on, you can tell me," he says, looking at Ginger's surrendering face. "Or are you afraid to answer? Are you afraid I'll hurt you with this information?"

Savory things keep falling into his trap.

"I might," he says, the delicacy only making him even more hungry. "But I still want you to tell me."

"Fuck, Tim," Ginger says, his tear glands gaining Tim's disturbing emotional attachment as well. "Yes. Yes."

"Yes to what?" Tim asks, wondering how he can even speak with his teeth that deep in Ginger's body. "Are you ashamed the most of eating your shit or are you afraid to tell me about that?"

"Oh my God, Tim," Ginger says, looking at him with even more troublesome fondness on his dumb fucking face.

"Or is it both?" Tim takes an educated guess, circling the tip of Ginger's cock with his callous fingers.

"Yes," Ginger confirms his speculation, shaking like an epileptic at the touch.

Tim smiles.

"That was really tasty, Ginger," he says. " Now let's get back to stumbling."

Ginger lowers himself on Tim's cock again, getting it in the second time he tries, Tim congratulating him on applying his recently acquired experience well, Ginger moaning, looking fucking grateful for the compliment, Tim's teeth itching to sink into him even deeper, Tim's abominable mind and Tim's horrifying warhead of a heart readily offering their help.

"So do you want to eat your shit this time?" he asks. "I'm definitely interested in getting a taste of your shame."

"Oh fuck," Ginger says, moving his strained surrendering body. "I... yes. Fuck, yes."

Tim chuckles.

"I kinda wanted to make you stumble on my cock till I come," he says. "But now I don't know. I like the idea of you sucking me once you do too. Which one do you prefer?"

Ginger shudders at the impact of Tim's verbal nuclear missiles and doesn't provide Tim with any coherent answer, resorting to delicious sobbing instead.

Not that Tim minds.

Not that Tim needs an answer.

Not that Tim doesn't have a proposition of his own.

"We can do both," he delivers it. "You can come and suck your filth off me. And then you can get back on my cock. What do you think? Wanna do both?"

Ginger shudders again, even though Tim is not sure how he manages to, with so little left of his body.

Ginger says yes.

Ginger says he loves him.

Ginger says his name while coming, while convulsing on him, clenching and wailing, looking fucking indebted to Tim for gnawing on him, looking illegal, looking like a sweaty mess, like a pile of squid goo, like the most ridiculous, most precious creature Tim's ever seen in his life, being that creature as well.

Tim says "get off me", pushing him on the bed.

Tim says "open your stupid mouth", getting on top of him, sparing a hurried glance at his own cock before he does.

Tim says "choke on your fucking crap", shoving it between Ginger's soft, warm, helpless lips, shoving it deep, shoving it careless, having exhausted all the wariness he's ever possessed on the previous action, having lost his abominable mind, having lost all control of his horrifying warhead of a heart, being a fucking monster.

He pulls out some seconds later, Ginger moaning at the loss, and pushes back inside him after another moment, holding his legs open, Ginger whimpering at the gain, Tim conducting his wicked fucking interview the entire time, demanding to know what Ginger is most afraid of, Ginger crying, pushing the words out, pulling his own intestines out, telling him he's afraid of him, he's afraid of himself, he's afraid of everything Tim wants to do to him, he's afraid of everything he'll let Tim do to him, the sets of those things being obviously identical without any need to solve fucking equations, Tim coming inside him, coming with a nuclear blast that leaves him blind, deaf, mute, broken, mutilated, torn apart and undone, hearing Ginger telling him he's afraid of John seeing him like this, seeing him for what he is, being appalled by what he let and lets and will let Tim do to himself, being disgusted by him, hearing all of it nevertheless and choking on his own breath, choking on the blood overrunning his mouth, choking on Ginger's miserable body he holds between his jaws, choking on his fury and on his own fear and on his own terrifying love that should be punishable by death and punished by it soon.

The house with the fucked up roof stays unvisited that day.

The house with the fucked up roof stays unvisited in favour of yet another interview being conducted by Tim.

The house with the fucked up roof stays unvisited in favour of an interview Tim starts by saying "fucking hell" and then adding "are you even serious?", proceeding to inform Ginger he'll fucking slap him, he'll fucking throttle him, he'll fucking kill him, and all of that not in a sexy way he actually plans to, shaking the crying squid by his shoulders and shaking himself, getting acquainted with some new aspects of Ginger's inner life that for once do not provoke any thermonuclear urges in him, but inspire a lot of fury and a lot of fear and a lot of guilt he doesn't know what to do with, just choking on them all over again.

The house with the fucked up roof stays unvisited in favour of kissing Ginger and holding his stupid scared hands and walking around the city with him, bumping into people, sitting on benches, hugging him, being unbelievably nice to him.

Tim grits his teeth and asks him if he wants to stop this.

Tim asks him, knowing full well he wouldn't actually be able to stop no matter Ginger's reply.

Tim asks him and Ginger answers him, saying frightening, nightmarish things to him, stating that of course he doesn't want Tim to stop, pleading with him not to stop, begging him not to stop, expressing his fucking gratitude when Tim says that of course he fucking won't, because how could he.

The house with the fucked up roof stays unvisited in favour of going back to Tim's house and lying there in bed, pressed into each other, Ginger's stupid scared hand over Tim's stupid scared nuclear warhead.

Tim says they'll have to tell John everything.

Tim says that it is not Ginger he'll be disgusted with.

Tim says that they'll put it on ice for now, because when he shows the full extent of his inner shit to John, he himself will be put on sand, left there to rot under merciless sun, thrown away and abandoned and denied all access to the ocean, and he cannot exactly face those consequences now.

Tim says all of that, as if that wasn't clear on its own.

Ginger says thank you.

Ginger says he can swalllow him whole.

Ginger says he can do whatever the fuck he wants with him.

Ginger says all of that, as if that needed any fucking confirmation as well.

**Chapter six, in which a not so innocent soul is further corrupted by an experienced tempter.**

"No, I don't want to cut your damn cock off," John says, voice angry. "Stop with this stupid joke already. It's not even funny."

_Joke_ , Tim thinks. _Ha._

He stares at John's guitar pick for another hour, listening to John's Spanish tunes, or rather pretending to listen, telling him he is the most talented and the most beautiful individual on the planet, being honest, but really distracted, thinking of grievous bodily harm he wants these heavenly cruel hands to cause him.

He eats John out after that, John wriggling on top of him, spreading his cheeks and rocking his hips, talking about grievous bodily harm he sadly doesn't actually want to be caused to his ass, Tim licking into him and fucking him with his own tongue, growling in the process, passionately thinking this should be his new occupation, John coming with a filthy moan, clenching under his lips, Tim coming a minute later, coming in John's mouth with his fist in his own.

Tim eats John out and drives home, thinking if John doesn't start eating him and soon, then he'll just have to feed him forcibly.

Tim waits for voluntary chopping for some more.

Tim waits in vain.

Tim devises a diabolical plan.

For the first act he buys a shotgun and talks about going on a hunting trip to shoot some cute bambies. 

John's hypocritical attitude towards different animals earns him a really pissed off virtuoso demanding all worldly pleasures of him. Tim concedes readily, grinning inwardly and offering John to be an oral fuckhole for him.

John giggles obnoxiously, showing his magnificent potential once again, and agrees to caulk Tim's offensive yap with his cock without ever touching Tim's, not allowing Tim any pleasure.

John ties him to the bed like a victim of a satanic ritual, his limbs thrown wide, his cock John absolutely has to cut off desolate and forlorn and liquifying, John's cock deep in his throat, John himself on top of him, holding his head and moving his hips, feeling like pure fury, Tim applying his gag reflex supression skills he learned from John wisely, feeling very much like an oral fuckhole, feeling like shark barbecue, feeling like a devout school teacher, feeling like the devil himself.

 _Oh, I am so not allowed any pleasure here_ , Tim thinks, sneering, chilling out on the bed with his non-existent cock out, still tied up and spread on the cutting board, John laughing at him and throwing socks at him, calling him names and looking like a cute little monster.

 _Naive elementary level torturer_ , Tim thinks, thermonuclear fondness roaring in his chest for days.

For the second act he bitches about his old broken back, denying John his favorite hands and knees for ages, and shits on every single one of his new tunes, denying John his favorite flattery for another eternity, doing it grudgingly, with a supreme goal in mind.

John's greed and egotism earn him a pouting virtuoso demanding all wordly pleasures of him again. Tim concedes without any hesitation, baring his inner teeth and offering John to be a dildo for him.

John giggles obnoxiously and realizes some of his magnificent potential, stuffing Tim's happy mouth with underwear on his own volition, tying Tim to the bed like a victim of a satanic ritual, his limbs thrown wide, and riding his stiff cock the way he wants to for as long as he wants to, feeling like pure gluttony, Tim applying his incredible will power, avoiding orgasming and thinking that for the next time he'll just have to buy a fucking cock ring, suffering gloriously and feeling very much like a dildo, feeling like a severed fin, feeling like a particularly adept coach, feeling like the devil himself.

 _Oh, I am so being rejected here_ , Tim thinks, chuckling inwardly, chilling out on the bed with his aching cock out, still tied up and caulked, John sticking his tongue at him and slapping various parts of his body, insulting him and making him suffer through every single one of his new tunes, looking like a self-absorbed prodigy.

 _Promising personal tormentor_ , Tim thinks, radioactive blood running out of his mouth, inundating whole cities.

For the third act he creates an ugly scene with Ginger, the half-eaten squid being his unsuspecting support team, being his forage, being his jelly, being his soilpipe, being his beaten chop, wearing the biggest motherfucking mouth in history on his dumb face as a result, causing horrible pain to Tim's old broken back with his gooey body Tim carries around the house for days.

John's pretty normal love and pretty understandable shock and pretty guarded ignorance of the state things have progressed into earn him an absolutely furious virtuoso demanding severe punishment for him. Tim concedes with great relish, letting go of his inner demon entirely, letting it hug John's, offering John to be a battered anal fuckhole for him.

Tim jerks off in the car in the parking lot near John's house.

John opens the door looking like a somewhat reluctant angel of death, still shitting his pants because of a certain bondage involving conversation, but determined to teach Tim some discipline nevertheless.

Tim stands on his knees on the bed, bending his old broken back Ginger rubbed for hours beforehand with his unsuspecting loving tentacles, spreading his cheeks and anticipating a disaster.

John stretches him with his magical fingers and picks up his repugnant belt, spanking Tim's blissful hole with it, Tim thinking of cock cages and chastity belts, being realistic, thinking of guitar picks and Japanese delicacies, letting his imagination run wild, thinking of nothing and just screaming into the pillow, John throwing away the belt and pushing inside him, swearing breathlessly, whining through gritted teeth, working his hips like a jackhammer, Tim cheering him on, feeding him his own anal obliteration talk, feeding him _his_ own flesh sliced thin, feeling very much like a beaten anal fuckhole, feeling like shark sashimi, feeling like a proud mentor, feeling like the devil himself, John pressing on his nape and pushing his head down, telling him to shut up, coming inside him, holding his hips tight with his heavenly cruel hands, letting the inner demon off the leash, falling on top of Tim's dead gutted chopped shark body, suffering the disillusionment once again.

"My seraphic crucifier," Tim says, allowing John to flip him over.

"My divine persecutor," Tim says, accepting the cigarette he shoves in his mouth.

"My beloved virtuoso," Tim says, grabbing John's ruthless extremities. "Let me kiss your sadistic hands."

"Shut up," John says, pushing him away and sitting down next to him, starting to stuff his mouth with cookies. "Don't call my hands that. I am not a fucking sadist."

Tim spends fourteen billion years laughing out loud and shaking on the bed.

"You so are," he says, looking at John's beautiful frowning face. "Look at what you've done to my repulsive fucking ass."

"Fuck off," John says, looking at his smug shark snout. "I am not a sadist. I don't like hurting people."

"Oh, but I am not people," Tim objects. "And you like hurting _me_. You like hurting me specifically."

"You fucking deserve being hurt," John says. "You deserve being punished."

"Of course," Tim nods. "And you are a sadist. You're the worst kind, actually. A _moral_ one."

"I am fucking not," John insists. " _You_ are a fucking sadist. An immoral one."

"It is quite possible to have more than one sadist in the room," Tim says, chuckling. "It's not unheard of."

"Jesus, will you stop with that?" John says, pouting. "I don't want your fucking opinions about my personality. I don't want your weird pillow talk."

"What do you want then?" Tim asks.

He receives a rather long list.

He checks all the boxes, being John's willing servant for days.

He snuggles with him in bed and studies his fateful face, thinking that if this shining creature made of light doesn't throttle him once he learns how immoral a sadist he actually is and he himself doesn't pull the trigger with his own heartless hand blowing his dumb shark head into pieces, he just might pull some delightful waterboarding out of him.

And maybe even get his damn cock cut off.

**Chapter seven, in which sexual life of lower intestine bacteria leads to an involuntary release of cortisol and adrenaline in the dumb brain of an elasmobranch fish.**

"Stop, fuck, stop," Tim stutters, panting, clenching his fists so hard it hurts his arms, his legs shaking and his lungs collapsing, staring down at John taking his cock out of his mouth, not letting him come and looking up at his no doubt haunted snout, wearing several different expressions on his own beautiful visage, all of them utterly delightful.

"What, like seeing me writhe, you baby fucking sadist?" Tim asks, addressing the one he finds the most captivating, trying to pull off a smirk and no doubt failing spectacularly.

"Fuck you," John says, pulling off his own smirk quite successfully and getting up. "I am not a sadist, you're just hot. Fucking crazy, but hot. You sure you don't actually want to come?"

"Nope," Tim says, trying to tuck himself back in his pants. "I wanna be rejected and pathetic for tonight."

John giggles and after Tim succeeds in shoving his neglected cock back where it belongs they go out of the bathroom, Ginger greeting them with their traditional formula and calling them sick fucks, standing there waiting for them, looking nerdy, John dragging him and Tim to the dance floor, choking them with his feathers, Tim suffering magnificently through the better part of the evening and putting various pills in his mouth, Ginger trying to put his tongue in his mouth as well and then getting stupidly drunk in the spirit of camaraderie, John calling them sick fucks once they get really wasted, pouting and then tripping over and falling on some boobs, his mood improving dramatically, John himself leaving the inebriated pair of sea animals with a coy smile on his lipstick covered lips, the inebriated pair of sea animals in their turn leaving the club, proceeding to roam the streets, laughing like maniacs, falling on the ground, Ginger drowning Tim in moronic terms of endearment which keep leaving his mouth, Tim drowning the streets they are roaming in vomit that keeps leaving his, both of them ending up standing near a food establishment of uncertain ethnic origin and even more uncertain quality, stuffing their faces with various uncertain things and then getting delivered back home by a taxi driver who is no doubt not happy about choosing this particular job to earn his living, Ginger drowning him in moronic terms of endearment and Tim drowning his work instrument in vomit.

Tim wakes up the next morning feeling like shark sashimi of uncertain quality that has most certainly been digested and then released back into the ocean via the alimentary canal, though he is not entirely sure if it was through the entrance or through the exit.

Tim wakes up and groans, three words leaving his mouth.

"Ginj," he says.

"Smoke," he says.

"Water," he says.

He gets no response.

He gets up. He gets his water himself. He gets his cigarettes himself as well. He doesn't get Ginger, because Ginger is not around, Ginger is evidently at the studio, having been summoned there by the assholes who keep insisting on turning him into a plush toy, being tortured there, Tim learning of that developement via the note he finds tucked into the cigarette package, smiling when he does, thinking of Ginger's premonition skills with fondness.

He spends the day roaming about the house, first suffering beyond belief, then restoring his battered body through hydration and occupying himself with various activities, calling Ginger from the supermarket to ask what he wants for dinner.

Ginger doesn't pick up.

Tim figures that torture is being particularly demanding today and makes that choice for Ginger himself, thinking of his profound experience doing that with even deeper predilection.

Then he cooks his dinner and he eats his dinner and even reads Ginger's philosophy bullshit, getting bored, all of that with no sign of Ginger coming back.

Tim figures that torture by his own heartless hands is needed to interrupt the one still somehow going on in the studio and calls Ginger once more. Then he calls John, because Ginger doesn't pick up again, and asks him to give him the number of the Grand Inquisitor of the musical hell.

John informs him that there is nothing going on in the studio today and they are currently not recording anything, telling him to stop taking so much dope and go check his memory, because Ginger couldn't possibly have told him he's going to be in there, Tim omitting the presence of physical evidence confirming that it is exactly what happened, his mouth getting overrun by bile.

He hangs up and spends about an hour dealing with the coiling thing in his chest and dusty moldy leaves in his throat and trying to figure out what the fuck is even going on.

He gets out of the house and drives to Ginger's spider factory that's been listed as being on sale for a while now, but hasn't yet drawn enough attention, being a spider fucking factory.

He gets out of the car and sees Ginger's goddamn vehicle parked in front of it.

It hurts.

It turns his fission bomb into an ultra-cold stellar object.

He knocks at the door.

He knocks at the door forever, shouting, threatening to break the fucking window, demanding to be let in, demanding to know what is happening, even though by that time he has his own suspicions, which are confirmed by Ginger's scared voice he hears behind the buffer that separates them, by Ginger's scared voice that asks him to leave, asks him to leave very politely, asks him to leave with a pleading quality to the sound.

"Open the fucking door," Tim insists. "Open the fucking door and tell me what's wrong."

"Fuck," Ginger says, following his first order and presenting him with his green sweaty stiff mask of a face.

"I have a food poisoning," Ginger says, following his second order and presenting him with an answer he expected all along.

"Can you please leave?" Ginger says on his own volition, presenting him with a kick in the guts.

"Fuck," Tim says. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

"I... It's bad," Ginger says. "I don't want... I don't want you to..."

"Fuck," Tim says. "Are you motherfucking kidding me?"

"I'll be okay," Ginger says. "It's happened before. I just need you to leave. Please."

"Shut up," Tim says and pushes him inside the house.

He spends next twenty four hours roaming about that house and dragging Ginger's feverish protesting body along, shoving pills in his stupid scared mouth and pouring liquids in it, covering him with blankets and taking them off, Ginger's feverish protesting body twisting and turning underneath them and over them, helping him get to the fucking bathroom and leaving him inside, Ginger's feverish protesting body pushing him out with Ginger's stupid scared tentacles, Ginger being a pathetic shaking shitmess and saying he's sorry for being so disgusting, Tim being a shaking stellar remnant and saying nothing, not a single word, keeping his trap shut tight, unwilling to hear what might come out of it, thinking about chemical elements in the periodic table in a loop, unwilling to let his mind create what might come out of his trap shut tight, falling asleep in the chair, exhausted, Ginger passed out on the bed.

He wakes up feeling Ginger's scared touch on his aching shoulders.

He recoils.

"Are you feeling better?" he asks, opening his eyes and looking at Ginger's dumb fucking face.

Ginger nods.

"Alright," Tim says and gets up, pushing him away and checking his pockets, preparing to leave.

"Tim," Ginger says, trying to grab him with his tentacles again.

"Don't touch me," Tim says and shudders. "Don't touch me, you fucking—"

He presses his hand over his mouth and stands like that for several seconds, Ginger staring at him, a panicking modern rendition of Mona Lisa.

"Tim, what—" he starts speaking again.

"Shut up," Tim says. "I fucking tell you I want to eat you and you run away from me? How do you even dare? You fucking—"

He presses his hand over his mouth again.

"God, Tim," Ginger says, settling on a facial expression. "I... I didn't..."

"Shut up," Tim says. "I'm gonna go away now. I'm gonna go away and spend some time alone."

"Fuck, Tim," Ginger says and shudders too.

"I'm gonna go to... I'm gonna go to fucking Seattle. I'm gonna go to Seattle and do drugs and suck cock in there, okay?"

"Tim, I am s—"

"I'm gonna go to Seattle for... For two weeks. I'm gonna go to Seattle for two weeks and drink myself into oblivion, okay?"

"Tim, please, d—"

"Tell fucking John I'm there," Tim says. "Tell him... Tell him something. Tell him I am helping somebody. Tell him I ran away. Tell him I fucked up. Tell him it's my fault. Tell him anything you want, okay? You fucking—"

He presses his hand over his mouth once more.

"Okay," Ginger says and hugs himself by the shoulders. "Okay."

"Peachy," Tim says and leaves the house.

Tim leaves the house and leaves the city and leaves the state and goes to fucking Seattle for two weeks, doing drugs, sucking cock and drinking himself into oblivion in there, his chest in a weird quantum fluctuation the whole time, the nuclear disaster getting replaced by the dying star and the dying star getting replaced by the nuclear disaster. It is in the same confusing state when he comes back, standing in front of his own place at four in the fucking morning, wondering how it would go, thinking that if it goes well he'll definitely need to build a pagan temple to the blind goddess of luck in the house he'll be finishing Ginger off in, thinking that if it doesn't go well he probably will be finishing himself off, but not in a sexy way at all.

He finds Ginger in his bed once he gets in.

He finds him in his bed, sleeping with his wifebeater hitched up and all seven blankets he's covered himself with sliding off his body, the room smelling of alcohol and tobacco, Tim standing there, blood and bile mixing on his tongue.

He sits down on the bed next to Ginger.

Ginger wakes up.

"Tim?" he whispers, his soft warm scared breath landing on Tim's ugly snout.

"I wanna fucking kill you," Tim says, his energy radiating hand landing on Ginger's naked lower back.

"Okay," Ginger says, staring at him with the black holes of his eyes. "You can."

Tim falls down next to him and they hug, pressing into one another.

"I am sorry," Ginger says. "I wasn't trying to ru—"

"Shut up," Tim says. "I know. You're just a fucked up maniac with issues about shit."

"I am sorry," Ginger says. "I just didn't want y—"

"Shut up," Tim says. "That's dumb. I am not disgusted by you, when will you fucking understand that?"

"I am sorry," Ginger says. "Just please don't go."

"Shut up," Tim says. "Come here. I'll suck your stupid fucking face."

He does just that for fourteen billion years, the dying star in his chest gradually disappearing, shrinking in size, turning into a point particle trapped in the infinite empty space inside the atom, the nuclear disaster in his chest spreading its burning wings, flying to the awaiting sky, escaping through the atmosphere, destroying the dry moldy leaves that've been stuck in his throat.

"It's fucking ironic, though, don't you think?" Tim asks, when they part.

"What?"

"That you've managed to get diarrhea from Indian fucking food and not from all the shit I fed you," he says, combing Ginger's hair with his fingers.

"I think it was actually Bangladeshi," Ginger says, and Tim laughs out loud, shaking on the bed, Ginger joining him promptly, tears running down their faces.

Tim spends the next ten days being nice to Ginger.

Tim spends the next ten days being Nice with a capital "n".

Tim spends the next ten days going out with Ginger, walking around the city with him, holding his scared hand in his own, bumping into people, cooking anything Ginger wants, reading philosophy bullshit with him, listening to his drum performances in shared earphones, sitting with him in the bath, washing his hair and brushing it afterwards, telling Ginger he loves him for fourteen billion times, sucking Ginger's face so much his lips start to hurt and his tongue starts to hurt and even his hard palate starts to hurt, his teeth itching for Ginger's raw flesh all that time, itching to eat him, Tim denying them that opportunity, denying himself that opportunity, offering Ginger to eat him out instead on the fifth day and being denied as well, being denied in a polite, pleading, begging fashion, accepting the rejection and gritting his itching teeth, getting reminded of things long past and not being very happy to experience those nostalgic feelings, offering the same option again on the seventh day and getting on with it for a blissful, but very brief period and getting pushed away after that period is over, getting pushed away in a polite, pleading, begging fashion, gritting his teeth covered in bile, praying for fucking Alzheimer's to destroy both his and Ginger's fucked up brains right that second, getting furious and scared and pushy, demanding the same option once more on the tenth day, forcing Ginger into it, holding him in place, telling him to lie still and take it, finishing his task without much gratification, holding a sobbing pathetic shitmess of a squid in his arms afterwards, listening to his harrowing narrative full of one particular adjective Tim just cannot hear anymore, keeping his trap shut tight and desperately trying to think of something that can fix this, something that can fix Ginger and finally let him start breaking him again, coming up with a sinful solution, with a frightening, nightmarish solution, spending the next week doing some really weird fucking observation of squid in his natural habitat and making peace with what he fully intends to do to the poor unsuspecting creature.

**Chapter eight, in which longstanding problems are being dealt with by starting a revolution.**

Tim waits.

Ginger reads in bed, his face in the book.

Tim waits.

Ginger reads in the kitchen, sipping his tea.

Tim waits.

Ginger reads on the couch. Tim waits right beside him.

Ginger shifts on the couch, turning the page.

A minute later he shifts again and puts the book down.

He grabs the cigarette package and gets up.

Tim grabs his hand.

"Tim?" Ginger asks, looking down at him.

"I'm bored," Tim says, taking the last drag and exhaling the smoke. "I'm hungry. Undress."

"I uh..." Ginger says a few seconds later, an uncertain expression on his face. "I... Okay."

Ginger pulls off his wifebeater and his boxers, throwing them away and standing there in front of Tim naked, Tim just admiring the scenery for a minute or so, his eyes travelling up and down Ginger's body, lingering now and then, Ginger biting his lips and shifting on his feet, getting hard little by little, Tim chuckling at that.

"What... What do you want?" Ginger asks, his scared fingers twitching.

"What's on the menu?" Tim asks, his cruel fingers touching his teeth.

"I..." Ginger says. "I can jerk off for you. And touch my lips. Or... Or my nipples."

"Nice," Tim says. "Anything else?"

"I..." Ginger says. "I can slap myself. You can... you can too. Or I can suck you off. Or, you know, I can..."

"You can stuff my face with your cock, got it," Tim says, grinning. "Alright, I'll have that as a first course. Come closer."

Ginger makes a step forward, Tim wrapping his hand around his cock first, then mouthing at the tip, glancing up at him, running his tongue over the head, sucking the whole thing in with a wet sound, sloppy and careless, opening his trap wide, Ginger clenching his fists, standing there with his legs shaking, breathing audibly, fidgeting constantly.

Tim takes his cock in and out several times, letting it fall out of his mouth and then catching it with his lips, swallowing it deep in one motion, Ginger swearing and saying his name a lot.

Then Tim sits up, leaning against the back of the couch, lifting his hand and smearing saliva around his mouth, Ginger staring at him, blushing and sweaty.

"My compliments to the chef," Tim says. "What else have you got? I am still undernourished."

Ginger makes an embarrassing sound, shivering.

"You can..." he says. "You can ride me. And I can slap... I can slap your cock. Or your face."

"Hm," Tim hums. "Sounds delicious. But I think I'll have these some other time. I am in the mood for... For a luxury treat. I want the specialty."

"I... Tim, I..." Ginger says, stuttering.

"What? I can't fuck your filthy ass? Your scared hole is not on offer today?" Tim asks, baring his teeth. "I'll need a book of complaints then."

"I..." Ginger says, swallowing hard. "It... It is. You can. I just..."

"Yeah?"

"I want to go to the toilet," Ginger squeezes out in one go.

Tim chuckles darkly.

"Oh, I am well aware of that," he says, nodding, carefully observing Ginger's pathetic reaction to his words.

"Tim," he manages. "I... I really need to go. If you just wait. I'll come back. Okay?"

"No," Tim says, shaking his head. "Not okay. I want it now. I don't want to wait. I want your dirty fucking hole right now, Ginger."

"Oh God," Ginger says, his eyes closing for a second, his head tilting to the side. "Tim, I... I can't. Don't mak—"

"Come on," Tim says, getting up. "Bedroom. We're fucking the shit out of you."

"Arms under your knees," Tim says, throwing the glass dildo on the bed and opening the lube. "I'm gonna be enjoying the view."

Ginger grabs himself by the shoulders, shuddering.

"Tim," he whispers. "I... Can we... I feel like I really might..."

"Lie down and spread your fucking legs," Tim says, pouring the lube on his fingers. "I don't care what you fucking feel."

"Oh fuck," Ginger says and falls onto the bed, slowly lifting his legs and holding himself open.

Tim bends over, resting his weight on one hand, and presses his fingers against his hole.  
Ginger awards him with a pathetic sound.

"Tim," he says, forcing the words out. "I... There is... There is probably..."

Tim pushes his fingers inside him.

"Yeah, there is probably actual fucking crap in your hole right now," he says, drawing another miserable noise out of Ginger. "That's why we're doing it. I am fucking tired of you thinking I am disgusted by you. I am fucking tired of you freaking out because of imaginary things. I'm getting the real deal. If we are lucky, that is."

Ginger starts shaking, a cold current of shame running over his sweaty pale skin, tears running down his sweaty pale face, Tim gritting his teeth, digging his heartless fingers deeper, thinking he should be buried alive for doing this and not in a sexy way he actually plans to be, watching Ginger's muscles flexing, his chest heaving, stretching him mercilessly.

He adds more lube. He adds the third finger.

Then Fortuna smiles at him once again.

"Oh, there you are," he says, smiling at Ginger in his own turn. "Ginj, we've succeeded. There's definitely some shit in your hole right now. I can fucking feel it."

Ginger looks at his shark snout full of teeth in absolute horror, white as a sheet, convulsing, whining pitifully through his teeth, tearing Tim's wretched chest apart, and Tim stares back at him, pulling his fingers out and grabbing at the dildo.

"You're gonna fuck it now," Tim says, getting up and pouring lube on the thing, taking Ginger's hand in his own and shoving it in it. "You're gonna whip your filth for me now."

"Oh my God, Tim," Ginger mutters, his head lolling back, his voice broken like never before. "Tim, please, it's... I..."

"It's happening," Tim says, holding Ginger's legs by the calves, gripping them tight. "You don't get to say no around here. You do what I want. You're my fucking food, Ginger. You're just my food, aren't you?"

"Oh fuck," Ginger says, his hand clenching the sheets, his face trashed, his body just a wreck in front of Tim. "Yes. I am. Tim, I am."

"Great," Tim says, folding him almost in half. "Get the cock in. Fuck your dirty hole for me. Fuck it good. Come on it. Make a shit feast for me."

Ginger pushes the dildo in with a sob, his head falling on the bed, his gulping throat exposed, Tim watching him follow his sinful orders, holding him in place, Ginger moaning, helpless and crying, fucking himself to a stuttering rhythm, Tim bending slightly, pressing his hand over Ginger's, making him do it harder, forcing his way in, cutting into him and gorging on the best pieces. Ginger comes after a minute or two, his whole body twisting as if being shocked by electricity, his back arching, his hand scratching the mattress, his throat twitching, the deadly nuclear missiles in Tim's deplorable chest meeting with the ground and wiping out every living thing on Earth.

Tim slaps his hand away after his orgasm is over, pulling out the dildo and chuckling darkly, when he sees it is indeed not exactly clean.

"Congratulations, squid," he says, glancing up at Ginger's disintegrating face. "We've got ourselves a delicacy. Wanna see?"

"Oh my God, Tim," Ginger says, trying to shake his head, his hand on the sheet starting to create a drum beat. "Tim, please, don—"

Tim lifts his hand and shows him the dildo, gripping his knee tight, holding him in place. Ginger has a seizure, a frightening, nightmarish seizure, a harrowing sound escaping his quivering lips, looking powerless, looking defensless, looking open for an attack, that is not long in coming, because Tim opens his own frightening nightmarish trap and shoves the dildo inside it, sucking on it, eating Ginger's filth and swallowing it down, ignoring Ginger's feeble protests full of tears, sneering both inwardly and outwardly, the blasts in his chest tearing him apart.

"You've got mouthwatering fucking crap, Ginger," he says, throwing the dildo away and grabbing Ginger by his hair. "Now let's get it all out of you just like you wanted. Let's see how disgusted I am by that."

He yanks him off the bed, hauling him out of the bedroom, Ginger stumbling and almost falling down, the elementary particles of his fragmented body rattling on the floor, Tim dragging him to the bathroom like a dead weight, pushing him inside, opening the lid of the toilet and making him sit on it.

"Come on," he says, taking his own cock out and squeezing it in his heartless hand. "You wanted to shit? Do it then. I'll fucking jerk off to that. I'll fuck your dumb mouth while you do that."

"Oh my God, Tim," Ginger says, looking up at him, paralyzed, his whole body tense, his hands gripping his own thighs tight, Tim holding him by his hair. "I... Please, don't make me do this. It's fucking disgusting. I ca—"

"It doesn't matter," Tim says, towering over him, a menacing warhead over a pathetic primordial soup. "I am fucking tired of you thinking I care. I am fucking tired of you being ashamed. Do what I said. Start shitting. Open your mouth and suck me. Suck me while you shit. I'm gonna come down your throat. I'm gonna fucking show you exactly how repulsed by you I am."

He pulls Ginger's mouth open and shoves his cock in, moving his hips and holding Ginger's head in place, Ginger wailing around him, his eyes wet, wide open, horrified, begging, vulnerable, Tim's shark jaws crunching down his miserable squid body.

"Shit, Ginger," he spits out. "Empty your fucking bowels. I wanna come while you take a crap. I wanna hear you do it."

Ginger chokes on him, his puny sweaty broken masticated body shaking underneath Tim, and then he moans pathetically around Tim's infuriated cock and slowly lets go, complying, Tim growling with his trap full of blood and raw meat, fucking his soft, wet, warm mouth, feeling happy like never before, feeling blessed, ascending to thermonuclear heaven, feeling panicked and terrorized, feeling damned, crushing down into radioactive hell, coming in Ginger's throat he wants to rip open and falling on his knees right after that, devouring his soft, wet, warm lips, pulling him close, pulling him inside his own exploding chest.

"Oh my God, what are you doing?" Ginger whimpers, trying to push him away with his stupid, moronic, nonsensical hands. "Tim, I am fucking disgusting. What are you even doing? I am on the fucking toilet that is full of my fucking shit. I am covered in my fucking shit."

"I've just eaten your shit, Ginger," Tim says, holding him by his arms and looking at his stupid, moronic, nonsensical face. "I don't fucking care how disgusting you are. I want to swallow you whole. I want your shit and your meat and your skin and your bones and your blood and your tears and your bile and your marrow and your fucking snot that makes me vomit. I want to swallow all of it. You're fucking sea food, Ginger. That's how sea food is consumed. Do you fucking understand me?"

"Tim, I..."

"What, you're worried you're covered in shit? Spread your fucking legs," Tim says, slapping his thighs and shoving his hand between them. "Lift your fucking hips."

"Oh God, Tim, don—"

"Here," Tim says, wiping the hand on his own face. "Now I am covered in shit too. What else are you fucking worried about? That the toilet is full of shit? Well, it is a _toilet_. It's supposed to be full of shit. And there is a fucking flush."

He releases Ginger's shoulder and presses the button.

"Gone," he says. "Your fucking shit is gone now."

"Tim, I..."

"What, you still think you are disgusting?" he asks. "Look at what I've done. Look at what I've done to you. Think of what else I want to do to you. You're not fucking disgusting, I am. I am an appalling nauseating horrendous creature, Ginger. You're fucking perfect. I am the one who is disgusting. I fucking _love_ you, Ginger. I am disgusting. Do you understand me?"

"I... Yes." Ginger whispers. "Yes, Tim. Yes, I do."

"Fucking finally," Tim says, hugging him tight and letting him cry for fourteen billion years.

"Get up," he says, when Ginger's breath returns to normal. "We need to take a shower. And to throw up. We cannot both get an E. coli poisoning. Fucking John's not gonna help us. He's lazy. And a bit squeamish."

Ginger laughs weakly.

"I am sorry," he says. "I love you."

"Shut up," Tim says, pulling him up. "Come on. I'll help you vomit. I'll hold your fucking hair."

And he does.

And they drink a fucking gallon of water each, and throw up, bending over a sink, and Tim forcibly shoves antibiotics down Ginger's gulping throat and into his own hungry trap, and they sit forever in the bathtub, water pouring down on them, Tim wrapping his arms around Ginger and never letting him go.

And when that eternity is over, they lie in bed, pressed into each other, Tim's smoking snout in Ginger's hair, Ginger's plasma covering his horrible body like a blanket.

Tim sighs.

"We'll have to do this again," he says. "We'll have to do this with John."

"Fuck."

"Yeah," he says, shifting and looking Ginger in the eye. "He needs to know. He needs to know what I am fucking doing to you."

"Tim."

"What?"

"I don't... I don't want him to know. I am fucking afraid."

Tim chuckles.

 _Like I want him to know_ , he thinks. _Like I am not afraid._

"Fuck, shut up," he says. "Don't be ridiculous."

"Tim, he'll..."

"No, he won't," he says. "He loves you, you fucking idiot. Now me, that's a different story. We'll see if he'll still want me around."

"Fuck."

"Don't worry," he says. "We'll play for time some more. We'll hide this fucking shit I do to you from him some more. But we'll need to tell him eventually. We'll need to tell him about the house anyway. So..."

"Fucking hell."

"And I'll talk to him myself first, okay?" he says. "I'll explain to him exactly what I am first. But then we'll have to tell him everything. It's not fair that he doesn't know. Okay?"

"I... Fuck, okay. Okay."

"Alright," he says. "Now come here. Let me fucking love you some more."

**Chapter nine, in which various goods are put on display and prodded during the seafood festival.**

A tender tentacle lands on his numb shoulder.

A big cup of steaming hot coffee lands on the table.

Tim sighs, rubbing his eyes, and turns off his computer.

The tentacle moves to the back of his neck and starts rubbing his nape.

"A guillotine would've been more efficient," he says.

Ginger scoffs behind him.

"Then do it fucking harder."

Five minutes later Tim finishes his coffee and turns around, pressing his tired forehead to Ginger's stomach.

"How long have I been sulking already?" he asks, muttering.

"Three days," Ginger says.

"Hm," Tim hums. "That sucks. That is fucking dangerous. We need to cheer me up."

"Yeah," Ginger says.

"We need to do something really vile," Tim says, lifting his head and looking at him. "We need gross indecency."

Ginger laughs softly.

"I'll go sleep on the floor where I belong now, okay?" Tim says. "And in the morning I'll try to think of something."

"Okay," Ginger nods.

Nine hours later Tim finishes his coffee and lights up a cigarette.

"A sex club," he says, voise pensive. "I haven't visited a sex club since forever. How about we go to a sex club and I do things to you in there?"

Ginger bites his lip.

"That..." he starts. "That would make me uncomfortable."

"How uncomfortable are we talking about?" Tim inquires, offering him the smoke.

Ginger takes a deep drag.

"Depends on what you are going to do," he says, exhaling.

"I haven't thought of exact details yet, but you're going to be naked," Tim says, shrugging. "And you're going to be squirming. And you're going to be coming all over yourself like a complete idiot in front of other people."

Ginger shivers.

"Fuck," he says. "Very uncomfortable."

"Alright then," Tim nods, smirking. "That just might do the trick."

They pull over and Tim pats his pockets.

"So I called and they don't serve alcohol in there," he says, turning to Ginger. "I can try and get my hands on some dope, though, if you want."

"It's okay," Ginger says. "You don't need to."

Tim chuckles.

"Charitable and suicidal," he says. "I like that. Come on then, let's go."

They enter the club, Tim holding Ginger's terrified hand in his own, while they're given the tour of the facilities, Ginger glancing around and turning bright red, while Tim asks questions and makes sure he understands the rules of conduct.

"Hard yet?" Tim whispers in Ginger's ear once they are alone.

"Yeah," Ginger says, his fingers twitching.

"Cool," Tim says. "Wanna go do some observation first? I might get inspired. Get some new ideas."

"Fuck," Ginger says. "Okay."

They walk around, Tim making Ginger watch the longest the most bizarre scenes he can find, then dragging him to the area with couches and pushing him to sit down, swinging his arm around his shoulders, lighting up a cigarette and questioning him on his impressions, Ginger swallowing hard, trying not to look at anybody in the room for longer than a second, pushing the words out one by one.

Tim smiles at him after he finishes speaking.

"Time to perform then," he says, nudging Ginger to get up. "Take your clothes off."

Ginger slowly gets up and starts unbuttoning his shirt, his hands shaking a little, Tim's eyes on his miserable face. Ginger takes off the shirt and gives it to Tim. Ginger takes off his pants and his underwear and gives them to Tim as well.

"Come here," Tim says, tucking the clothes behind his back. "Straddle my thighs."

He runs his palm over Ginger's verterbrae, Ginger staring at him, eyes scared, his warm breaking breath caressing Tim's grinning snout, his hands gripping Tim's shoulders.

"What's going to be our first piece?" Tim asks after a minute or so.

"Fuck, Tim," Ginger says.

"Maybe you should offer me to ravage your mouth," Tim says. "That seems like a good place to start."

"Fuck," Ginger says again. "Okay. "

"You'll have to turn around, though," Tim says.

"Now?" Ginger asks, gulping.

"Yeah," Tim says. "Delaying the show for no reason is disrespectful, don't you think?"

Ginger looks down for several seconds, his body tensing up.

"Fuck," he says. "I am afraid."

"Stage fright, seriously?" Tim asks, chuckling. "You're a professional. You've got a shit ton of experience. I've seen you play venues much larger than this."

"Fuck, Tim."

"What? What are you afraid of?"

"Fuck. People."

"That's dumb. They are not going to do anything to you. It's against the rules. I am the one who is going to make you suffer. You should be afraid of me. Not fucking people."

Ginger shivers.

"But they're gonna watch," he whispers.

"Sure," Tim says. "Of course they're gonna watch. They're gonna watch and see what a nice fucking squid I caught while hunting. I want them to watch. I came here to fucking brag. To show off my incredible skills."

Ginger laughs softly.

"I am vain," Tim continues. "I am very immodest. And you're my best trophy. Come on. Turn around. I wanna make everybody jealous of my unbelievable prowess."

He takes Ginger's hand off his shoulder and kisses it.

"Okay," Ginger says with a weak smile. "Alright."

Ginger gets up, slowly and awkwardly, never fully straightening up, and turns around, sitting in Tim's lap backwards, Tim pulling him close, pushing him down a little, Ginger's head falling on his shoulder, Ginger shifting several times, his eyes shut tight.

"Comfy now?" Tim asks, tucking his hair behind his ear.

"Jesus, Tim. Are you even serious?"

"I want you squirming because of my torturing talents," Tim says, chuckling. "Not because of my old disagreeable bones."

"God," Ginger says, shifting again. "It's okay. Your fucking bones are the least of my problems."

"True," Tim says. "Alright, open up. We've dragged our feet long enough. I feel like causing a lot of oral havoc."

Ginger lets out a broken breath and opens his mouth.

Tim smiles and starts touching his lips, circling them with his fingers, poking inside, pulling at the teeth, diving under the tongue, smearing saliva around them, glancing at Ginger's cock and at other people in the dimly lit room.

Ginger moans, his muscles going tense and then relaxing and then going tense again, waves of heat travelling through his body.

"Wanna open your eyes?" Tim inquires. "The crowd is really loving your microphone stand."

Ginger chokes on his breath a little, awarding Tim with a soft delicate seizure.

"Do I..." he asks, shivering. "Do I have to?"

"Well, I am asking you to," Tim says. "What do you think?"

He puts his hand in Ginger's hair, pushing his head forward, lifting it off his shoulder, and Ginger opens his eyes, producing a shameful moan after he does.

"Fuck," he manages. "Tim... Fuck..."

"You can look at me now, if you want," Tim says. "Or at your own overly excited cock. Eye sex with strangers is not necessary. This was just a reality check."

"Oh God," Ginger says, turning away and looking at Tim. "Fuck. Thank you."

Tim smirks and pushes two fingers in his mouth.

"Suck on my heartless digits," he says.

Ginger complies, fidgeting in his lap, shuddering now and then, whining and sweaty, Tim adding two more fingers and inviting Ginger to think about sucking his cock, Ginger's eyes ceasing to reflect any light at that, Tim considering his own words for a few seconds and finding faults in the proposition, changing his offer, inviting Ginger to think about sucking his own cock in spirit of being honest about spatial dimensions, Ginger choking on his fingers and producing pitiful tremors, Tim staring at the poisonous blood he lets out of his mouth filling the cracks in his pale face.

"Alright, mayhem's been achieved," he says, taking the fingers out and letting Ginger breathe.

He nudges him to sit up after twenty seconds, squeezing his hand into his pocket.

"I've got a little surprise for you, squid," he says, digging out the clamps. "We're gonna greatly enhance the visual part of our performance here."

"Fucking hell," Ginger says, Tim pulling him closer, holding him by his shoulder.

"Put them on," Tim says, grabbing Ginger's sweaty hand and shoving the clamps in it.

"I..." Ginger says. "Fuck."

"What? You'll look like an idiot?"

"Yes."

"Good," Tim says. "I'll have a proper laugh. It'll do wonders for my mood. Need I remind you, we're actually here for me. And for art. Not for these fuckers. They are here only to envy me and my glorious lifestyle."

Ginger grips his hand tight and laughs softly.

"Come on, do it. I want some misery. I want a lot of really sexy misery."

"Okay," Ginger says, taking the clamps from Tim.

Tim watches him put them on, fingers moving slow and unsteady, face going red, and then instructs him to pull at them, demanding self-inflicted excruciation, and watches him do just that as well, pushing his head down, making suggestions, making him look at his own shattering body, liquid, helpless and heavy, Tim thinking he must be the numbest and the stiffest person in the room, feeling really proud of himself, drowning it in Ginger's blood.

"Fuck, Tim," Ginger whispers, Tim hearing the signs of imminent tearing up in his voice. "I wanna come. Oh fuck."

"Yeah?" Tim asks, yanking his head up. "Okay. Wanna fuck my accommodating fist? I feel like looking at some really ridiculous upwards motions."

Ginger licks his lips and nods. Tim smiles and drags his tongue across his palm, wrapping it around Ginger's neglected cock.

Ginger moans with an open mouth.

"You can start writhing," Tim says with a smirk. "But don't stop with the nipples. Go crazy, you know. Amaze me. I'm gonna watch. You can stare at my overly excited mug."

Ginger shivers and starts jerking his hips up, fucking into Tim's palm, sliding down, legs shaking, Tim's old inhospitable bones providing no convenience and no support, Tim himself providing no comfort, baring his teeth and carefully observing shame inducing torture Ginger applies to his own body, cracking up and thinking they have to be the two biggest morons in the room, filling with nuclear joy to the very brim and telling Ginger to give it to him.

Ginger comes with a sob, going all gooey and almost falling on the floor with a splash, Tim saving the situation, hauling him up by his hair and sucking his face, Ginger moaning into his mouth.

Tim wipes his hand and Ginger's cock with Ginger's boxers and pushes him off himself, taking the clamps off him after pulling at the chain several more times.

"Fuck," he says, looking up at the ceiling. "My cock is a beverage."

Ginger touches him with his scared tentacles.

"Do you want anything?" he asks.

"To be put in the fridge?" Tim offers. "To be thrown on ice? To freeze floating in outer space?"

Ginger laughs and attempts to grab at the drink in Tim's pants.

"Don't touch me," Tim says, slapping his hand away. "I wanna give my own shameful show. We need to go socialize. Ask opinions. Sign stuff for people. Find somebody who can help me demonstrate you my typical on stage activities."

"What..." Ginger says. "What activites?"

"Hm," Tim hums. "Well, I haven't visited such establishments in a while. But back in the day I usually provided multiple people with my cooperative orifices."

Ginger shivers. Tim smirks.

"Or we can aim at gaining new experiences," he says contemplatively. "And keep my fuckholes unoccupied until you feel like stuffing them yourself."

"Jesus," Ginger says. "Can you not talk about yourself like that? It's fucking sick."

Tim laughs out loud.

"I call you a soilpipe and a shitduct and now you're upset about me offending myself?" he asks. "We need to pickle you more. You're way too sweet."

"Fuck," Ginger says, sitting up and dragging his pants from under Tim. "That's different. Now it sounds like you actually mean it."

"No, I am just rude," Tim says, getting up. "I am a rude ill-mannered shark. Come on, my fucking reactor needs cooling."

They spend some time in the toilet after Ginger gets dressed, Tim sticking his head into the sink, letting cold water run on his skull, and then applying the same treatment to his desolated cock, enjoying moderate success in lowering his body temperature and proceeding to drag Ginger to the bar, ordering appallingly alcohol free cocktails and letting Ginger buy him peanuts, chatting with people and boasting, making Ginger blush, trying to come up with an outrageous arrangement that would match their previous one in being a truly laughable exercise.

"Feet?" Tim asks, voice overly excited. "You stomp on cocks with your feet? Stephanie, let me hug you. Let me be your best friend."

He throws his arms wide open, the very promising lady he chatted up fifteen minutes ago looking at him with a perplexed expression on her face.

He alleviates her confusion, and another fifteen minutes after that they go to the fucking area, Ginger having finished asking his poilte biography related questions, Tim eager to suffer and entertain, Stephanie clearly inspired by his ardor.

 _Charisma_ , Tim thinks, falling onto the couch and spreading his legs wide, yanking Ginger to sit down too and swinging his arm around his shoulders.

"Tell me if it hurts too much, alright?" Stephanie inquires, placing her foot over Tim's crotch.

Tim sneers.

"Sure," he says. "My friend here can also hold my hand if I overestimated my level of masochism."

Then he gets repeatedly kicked in the nuts.

Some time later he gets to dry hump Stephanie's shoe, jerking his hips up like a complete imbecile, Ginger gripping his hand tight, shaking next to him, having underestimated Tim's level of insanity, four of his fingers in Tim's trap, Stephanie the wettest person in the room, Tim coming in his pants in hilarious agony.

Some time after that he gets to lick Stephanie's pussy, sitting there soaking in his own junk, Ginger having a seizure next to him, his hand pressing on his nape, Stephanie's hand pressing on his, Stephanie herself coming on his face, Tim feeling very nostalgic and kissing her feet once she catches her breath, Ginger staring at him and practically fainting.

Then he says goodbye to Stephanie, giving her another hug, though a less enthusiastic one on account of being a broken fucking doll with a broken fucking cock.

Then he says "ass or mouth?" to Ginger, giving him shivers, as violent as always on account of being a really sly and knowledgeable fuck with a really offensive and foul yap.

Then they have a bit of a discussion.

Then they have glorious oral sex in the middle of the fucking room.

"Would you like to go again?" Tim asks, his hand travelling down Ginger's back, his poor cock wrapped in a wet towel pressed into the mattress, Ginger's warm breath on his fucked face.

Ginger sighs.

"We can drag John along after we come clean," Tim offers. "If I don't get banned from the ocean, of course."

Ginger shivers.

"He'll point at stuff," Tim continues. "Clap his stupid hands. Fuck up his dumb lipstick by greedy cock sucking."

Ginger smiles.

"And I'll fuck _you_ up," Tim finishes. "Would you like that?"

Ginger moves closer, replacing his warm breath with his warm lips.

"You're welcome," Tim says.

**Chapter ten, in which the primary organs of the respiratory system facilitate the gas exchange with the internal environment.**

Tim notices the thing accidentally.

They are having a Nice Tim day with John, John dragging him to various ridiculous places, demanding infinite pleasures, Tim following his step and obliging, admiring his ever growing greed, his chest full of nuclear joy and preceptorial pride.

They are in the mall when Tim accidentally notices the thing.

They are in the mall, and John is inside the make up department, giggling, trying multiple lipsticks on, flirting with shop assistants and with customers as well, and Tim is outside the make up department, taking a call, listening to Brian's droning and looking around with bored eyes.

That's when he notices the fucking thing.

He gets dragged out of the mall twenty minutes later by John's excited hands, spending several more hours with him, going back to his place, fucking him on all fours, listening first to his ass annihilation talk and then to his stupid country tunes, praising him and eulogizing his unbelievable skills, kissing every part of his body and snuggling with him through the night.

He goes back to his own place in the morning and enters it quietly and sits on the bed and looks at his personal squid sleeping there, pale, oblivious and covered in lines, he looks at his throat, looks at his breath, looks at his pulse and thinks vile things.

He goes out of his own place thirty minutes later and goes back to the mall and stands there for an hour looking at the thing he noticed while John was giggling and trying multiple lipsticks on in the make up department, getting fucking ideas, drowning the world around him in radioactive blood.

He repeats the procedure for three more days.

Then he brings Ginger along.

"Here," Tim says, sighing, holding Ginger's perplexed hand in his own and pointing at the purple velvet scarf he noticed while John was flirting with shop assistants and with customers as well in the make up department.

"What?" Ginger asks, looking at him.

"That," Tim says, turning his head in the right direction. "That purple velvety bullshit."

Ginger looks at the thing, Tim listening to his breath and feeling his pulse under his heartless fingers, holding his hand in his own, Ginger's hand starting to tremble after a while.

"Fuck," he says, gasping. "Do you want to strangle me?"

"Yeah," Tim says.

"Fucking hell," Ginger says.

"Yeah," Tim says.

There is a pause after that.

"I thought you wanted to rip my throat open," Ginger says quietly.

"I have many conflicting desires," Tim says, chuckling.

"Fuck," Ginger says and looks at him, gulping. "Okay. You can."

Tim scoffs.

"Are you fucking suicidal?" he asks, hissing. "You and your fucking throat I don't know what to do with. No fucking way I am doing this."

"Okay," Ginger says, shivering. "Why?"

Tim laughs out loud.

"Let me see," he starts. "I am a motherfucking sadist who doesn't know where to stop when it comes to hurting you and you're a white male in your forties with a long and proud history of substance abuse and how many close relatives with heart conditions again? Was it two or three?"

"Three," Ginger says.

"Well, here you go," Tim says. "I am in serious opposition to accidental deaths."

"Oh," Ginger says, shivering again, and Tim hugs him, sighing again.

"So why are you showing it to me?" he asks some seconds later, his stupid reckless breath landing on Tim's insufficiently ingenious snout.

"Because I spent three fucking days staring at it and trying to come up with something and failing like a loser," Tim explains. "I need your input. I need your own propositions. I need you to tell me how I can strangle you without actually risking killing you."

"Fuck," Ginger says, his voice breaking.

"What?"

"I am fucking hard," he says and squeezes Tim's callous hand tight.

Tim snorts.

"Well, you're not the only one," he says and grits his teeth. "Come on. Help me out here."

"Fuck," Ginger says. "Fuck off. I don't know anything about this. Why do you expect me to come up with something you haven't thought of?"

"Because you're my last hope?" Tim says. "Because I am just a dumb unstable fish with an atrophied anal fin and you're a philosophy genius?"

Ginger manages a laugh.

"Fuck," he says. "Maybe you can like... talk about it?"

"Sure," Tim nods. "I most definitely will. Since you're already fucking hard and squirming here. Gonna be fun."

"Fuck," Ginger gasps out.

"But it's not enough," Tim continues. "I want this thing. I want this ridiculous stupid fucking thing."

"God," Ginger says. "Maybe I can..."

"Yeah?"

"Maybe I can like wear it... Oh fuck..." Ginger lets out a weak moan. "Maybe I can wear it for you. Like inside the house. Fucking hell."

Tim chuckles.

"Thought of it," he says. "Boring. And way too provocative."

"Fuck," Ginger says. "I'm gonna fucking fall now."

"Breathe," Tim says. "No need to get fucked up right now. I'll fuck you up later. Come on. Any other ideas?"

"Oh God," Ginger says. "Then maybe... Maybe you can actually do it once? Like just one time."

"You are fucking suicidal, aren't you?" Tim asks. "Who's gonna fucking stop me from doing it the second time?"

Ginger shudders.

"We can... We can give it to John after that," he offers, sounding pathetic.

Tim snorts.

"Hello, John, can you please keep this scarf I want to strangle Ginger with at your house for me?" he says.

Ginger laughs softly.

"Fuck you," he says. "I meant we can give it to him for good. Like a gift."

"This nerdy bullshit?" Tim asks, scoffing. "It's not his style."

"Fuck," Ginger says. "Okay. I don't know then. I don't fucking know."

"Damn," Tim says. "Come on then. Let's go. I'll fuck you up some other way."

"Okay," Ginger says, letting himself be dragged away from the velvety fucking thing.

He is not dragged far.

"Wait," Tim says, stopping abruptly. "I can... I can tell him you fucking bought it and I cannot look at it, because it's repugnant, which it is, by the way, and I want him to keep it for you for when you go dancing with him."

"It's not repugnant," Ginger says. "I like it."

Tim laughs like a maniac upon hearing that.

Ginger joins him in a second.

Tim hugs him and they stand like that in the middle of the aisle, shaking and cracking up, two biggest morons in the mall.

"Alright," Tim says. "Alright, you fucking idiot. We're buying the purple velvet scarf for me to strangle you with just one time. You fucking squid goo. You fucking food. You and your fucking throat."

"Okay," Ginger says. "Okay. I love you."

"Shut up."

"Wait a second," Tim says, pushing Ginger away. "I need to jerk off first. I need to be as reasonable as I can be this time."

They are sitting on the bed next to each other naked, Ginger jittery, Tim bloodthirsty, the fucking thing they've bought chilling out on the mattress between them.

"Do you want anything?" Ginger asks.

"I want everything," Tim says, smirking. "Give me your fingers. Open your dumb mouth full of deeply inspiring questions for me if you feel like it. I mean, this is not the eating part. It's just me being the regular pushy asshole you love for some unfathomable reason."

Ginger laughs and shoves four of his fingers in Tim's trap, Tim sucking on them and wrapping his own fingers around his cock, gripping it tight, tugging on it, then stopping for a second, pulling Ginger's hand out.

"Amendment," he says. "I'm gonna slap myself and you're gonna watch and learn. You still fucking suck at that. Oh, and most definitely open your dumb mouth for me."

"Okay," Ginger nods. "Of course."

"Cool," Tim says. "Fingers."

Ginger shoves four of his fingers back in Tim's trap, Tim sucking on them and slapping his own cock, Ginger watching him do it, shivering slightly, Tim staring at his open mouth and feeling blood overrunning his own, coming with a blast several minutes later, doing nasty things to his cock and leaking radiation, listening to Ginger's ragged breath and not feeling reasonable at all.

"Fuck," he says, wiping his hand on his shirt. "Fucking hungry."

"Do you want a cigarette?" Ginger asks.

"Sure," Tim nods. "And let's move the mirror here. Since we're already going overboard."

They move the mirror and Tim has a cigarette and drinks a glass of cold water, and Ginger just sits there on the bed with his unlawful fucking erection, running his stupid scared fingers over the nerdy scarf Tim wants to strangle him with.

"Smoke," Tim says, landing behind Ginger and shoving the cigarette in his mouth. "I'll tie your hair."

And Ginger smokes, while Tim ties his hair.

"Smoke," Tim says, picking up the scarf, and Ginger returns the cigarette to him. "Okay, let me remember how it's done properly."

"You've done it before?" Ginger inquires, Tim grinning, hearing very little surprise in his voice.

 _Diligent fucking Cthulhu_ , he thinks. _Rigorous fucking sea monster._

"Sure," he says, puffing out the smoke and wrapping the scarf around Ginger's neck. "Not many times, but yeah."

"To other people?" Ginger inquires again, Tim grinning, hearing growing agitation in his voice.

"Yeah, mostly," Tim says, tugging at the scarf lightly. "I mean, I did it to myself too, but it's not really my thing. I prefer waterboarding, if you want to know."

"Fuck," Ginger says.

Tim chuckles and looks at him in the mirror. Ginger shivers, licks his lips, lifts his trembling hand and touches the velvety fucking thing covering his gulping throat.

"Fuck," Tim says.

"What?" Ginger asks. "I like how it looks."

"Yeah, I like how it looks as well, but for a different reason," Tim says. "You illegal fucking substance. You fucking foie gras. Come on. Start touching your awesome fucking cock. I'll strangle you."

Ginger moans and rubs the tip of his awesome fucking cock. Tim takes a deep drag and puts out his cigarette.

"And let me know if anything feels wrong," Tim says and pulls at the scarf.

Magical, criminal things happen.

Tim pulls at the repugnant purple scarf wrapped around Ginger's neck and Ginger touches himself slowly, pressing into Tim, boiling plasma from the center of the sun, his scared hand stuttering, breathless sounds escaping his lips, eyes black and terrified, Tim's mouth full of his lung tissue, Tim's reflection in the mirror that of a hunting shark, Ginger's reflection in the mirror that of a trapped prey.

"Fuck," Tim spits out, watching Ginger writhe pathetically.

"Fphk," Ginger squeezes out, his hand on the mattress thumping SOS. "Wfht."

Tim lets go of the scarf and Ginger shudders, letting out a miserable moan.

"What? Shitting yourself already?" Tim asks, chuckling. "Breathe."

"Fuck," Ginger says. "I am scared."

"I am not even pulling that hard," Tim says, placing his hands on his shoulders. "You're just hyperventilating again. Overly excited meal you are."

"Fuck you," Ginger says, lifting his hand and wiping the tears off his frightened face.

"Wanna stop?" Tim asks.

 _Incredible fucking generosity of mine_ , he thinks.

"Do you?" Ginger asks.

 _Annoying fucking inquisitiveness of his_ , Tim thinks.

"Of course not," Tim says, scoffing.

"Alright," Ginger says. "You can... You ca—"

"Fuck," Tim spits out. "Just relax. Nothing's gonna happen. You're gonna come in like twenty seconds anyway. Just don't panic. Think of a beat. No requiems, though. That's bad luck."

"Fuck you," Ginger says and shivers. "Okay. Fucking do it already."

"Need you ask," Tim says and pulls at the scarf.

Magical, criminal, glorious things happen again, lasting a bit longer than twenty seconds.

Tim pulls at the obnoxious velvet scarf wrapped around Ginger's neck and Ginger writhes for him like a squid _sannakji_ , choking and jerking off in a faltering rhythm, staring at his own feverish reflection in the mirror, Tim swallowing down his choking hazard expertly, quivering tentacles falling into his toothy trap. Ginger comes with a delightfully muffled moan, shocked and panting once Tim lets go of the scarf, having a delightfully vulnerable seizure, trying to force units of speech out of his gulping throat and failing magnificently.

"Shut up and breathe," Tim says, falling on the bed and pulling Ginger closer. "I already know you love me and will let me do anything to you. I've just strangled you, for fuck's sake."

Sugary cuddly bullshit happens after that, Tim holding Ginger in a tight embrace and Ginger exhaling his forbidden fucking oxygen in his content shark snout, Tim lifting his heartless hand and touching the distateful thing on his neck.

"Suits you," he says, chuckling softly. "Suits your dumb fucking face."

"Fuck off, Tim," Ginger says, wailing quietly. "You've just strangled me, for fuck's sake."

Tim kisses his overwhelmed mouth.

"You're still around, aren't you?" he says. "Don't worry. I'm gonna give this pretentious cloth to John first thing in the morning."

"Thank you," Ginger says with a sob.

"For what?" Tim asks with a sneer.

Tim gives the purple velvet scarf to John the next morning.

A week after that he chokes Ginger again. He chokes him with his own arm wrapped around his throat, Ginger again sitting with his back pressed into him in front of the mirror, Tim quickly renoucning his initial idea of doing that standing, laughing his ass off at the ridiculous tiptoeing he would have had to perform, Ginger joining him for a moment and then becoming serious again, becoming helpless and gooey and writhing for him again, becoming his food, doing the bigger part of the strangulation job himself, gasping and shuddering, grabbing at Tim's arm, coming all over himself, convulsing, Tim showing him his blood covered teeth and devouring everything he's being served.

Another week later he chokes Ginger once more. He chokes him with his own hand pressed over his throat, Ginger a victim of a satanic ritual underneath him, Tim admiring his dumbfounded face, riding his awesome fucking cock, Ginger's hand stuttering on his own, Ginger coming boiling hot in his hole, coming for him, jerking his hips up and arching, vulnerable and exposed, Tim feeling his pulse under his heartless fingers and then releasing him, pressing his hand over his own throat, comradely choking himself and coming boiling hot as well, coming for Ginger, jerking himself off, feeling the nuclear explosions going off in his chest, sharing the meal.

Yet another week after that Ginger goes dancing with John and wears the pretentious cloth Tim noticed while John was in the make up department, coming back home in the morning, jittery and overly excited, Tim jerking him off, two of his fingers touching his carotid artery, looking at his gulping throat and his open mouth, feeling like a criminal mastermind, thinking that cooking has never been so easy, greatly enjoying this imaginary strangulation, Ginger coming with his name on his lips, choking on his illegal breath for Tim entirely on his own, telling Tim he loves him afterwards, Tim telling him it's very lucky he is that fucked up in the head, Ginger telling him to fuck off.

**Chapter eleven, in which certain elements come to face to face.**

"You like me the most on my back, right?" Tim asks, tilting his head and pulling at Ginger's cock.

"Yeah," Ginger exhales, licking his lips.

"Alright," Tim says, falling on the bed and dragging him along. "Let me ruin this for you as well."

Ginger fucks him on his back, Tim wrapping his legs tight around him and whispering into his ear, screwing with him, fucking him up, pulling his guts out and sticking his heartless fingers inside him, asking his sinful questions and forcing the words out of him, feeling his helpless body shuddering between his frightening, nightmarish jaws, feeling his helpless body shuddering in his arms, Ginger tender and vulnerable on top of him, Tim ruthless and cruel underneath him, Ginger crying and Tim laughing at him, Ginger saying he loves him and looking at him with eyes full of his illegal devotion, Tim replying with the same statement and looking at him with eyes full of his disturbing hunger, Ginger being Tim's food and Tim being a monster, holding Ginger's miserable plasma in his heartless embrace, listening to him sob and running his palm over his vertebrae.

"By the way," Tim asks, continuing his spinal caress afterwards, Ginger on his stomach next to him, Tim propped on one elbow, cigarettes in both their mouths. "What's it with you and that position? I really wonder."

"Fuck, Tim," Ginger says, sighing.

"I mean, you are a fucking virgin, of course," Tim says, combing his hair. "But not _that_ big of a virgin. So what's the deal?"

"God," Ginger says. "Tim, I..."

"I am just asking," Tim says. "The meal is over."

Ginger swallows hard.

Tim takes his cigarette from him and puts it and his own out.

"Come here," he says, lying down on his side. "I'll kiss you for all the torture you had to endure today."

"Better now?" he asks, pulling away, Ginger's warm breath landing on his face.

"Yeah," Ginger says. "Better."

"So what's with the missionary position?" Tim inquires again. "I am really interested. I won't touch it, okay? I promise."

"Okay," Ginger says and bites his lips, Tim waiting for him to speak again. "I... I like looking at you. And... Fuck. I feel close to you when we fuck like that."

"Jesus," Tim says, laughing and feeling his eyes water a little. "You like looking at me and you feel close to me? That's... Fuck, you _are_ the sweetest person on this planet. Fuck, why did I ever touch you? How do you even let me anywhere near you?"

"Fuck you," Ginger says. "I love you. I fucking love you, Tim."

"Yeah, wait a second with that," Tim says. "Let me process my guilt here. Fucking hell."

Ginger puts his tender tentacle on his chest. Tim chuckles.

"Sure, touch my fucking nuclear bomb of a heart," he says. "I fucking want to eat you, Ginger. _Eat_ you."

"I know," Ginger says. "I don't care."

"Yeah, because I've broken you that much," Tim says.

"Fuck you," Ginger says.

Tim exhales, letting the radioactive gas out of his throat.

"Okay, come here, you idiot," he says, pulling Ginger closer. "Tell me what you want. I'll bestow infinite pleasures on you. Be Nice motherfucking Tim for you the whole day tomorrow."

"I..." Ginger starts. "I don't know."

"Come on," Tim says. "There must be something I can give you."

Ginger just breathes for a while.

"Can we go for a ride?" he asks at last.

"Sure," Tim says. "What else?"

"I want to read something with you," Ginger says.

"Okay," Tim says. "Wanna go to the beach and read there? We can swing by a bookshop and buy something beforehand."

"Yeah," Ginger says. "I'd love that."

"Anything else?" Tim asks. "This doesn't feel infinite enough for now."

Ginger laughs softly and Tim joins him.

"Can you show me how to cook something?" Ginger asks then. "Like, can we cook together?"

"Of course," Tim says. "Let's make a mess. Let's make the whole kitchen dirty, since we're moving out of here anyway."

"Fuck off," Ginger says.

"You too," Tim says. "That's it? That's all you want?"

Ginger shrugs awkwardly in his arms.

"That's too chaste even by your standarts," Tim says. "Don't you want to fuck me?"

"Of course I want to fuck you," Ginger says.

Tim chuckles.

"Then how about we do me on my back again, but relatively sane this time?" he asks. "No intestines, just sugar. Maybe some vanilla slapping. And I'll suck your face and everything. Will that make you happy?"

"Okay," Ginger says. "Yeah. Yes. Thank you."

"Shut up. You and your fucking gratitude."

Next morning Ginger grows several more desires, and Tim obliges, making his green tea for him, making egg-in-the-hole toasties with salmon for him, brushing his hair on his own volition, chuckling upon seeing a buldge in Ginger's pants, letting him wear an obnoxious shirt John bought for him, undoing the top button on it in the doorway to avoid turning completely nice, reminding Ginger he likes his throat, Ginger shivering, Tim chuckling again and saying he likes his throat in a normal way as well, kissing his heartbeat, dragging him inside the car.

They go for a ride, driving around the area for several hours, switching seats a couple of times, listening to music, cold wind coming through the open windows fucking up Ginger's recently brushed hair and blowing out their cigarettes repeatedly, Ginger asking him questions, conducting his polite interrogation that is so unlike Tim's wicked one he made Ginger go through the previous day, Tim laughing at his enquiries, saying there isn't much left to know about him, saying Ginger sure as hell should grasp by now what he actually is, then answering anyway, narrating his biography to Ginger once again, talking about the aspects of it he's never thought would be of any interest to anybody, warning Ginger against sharing such details of his own life with him, saying he doesn't give a crap about his childhood or about his relatives or about his time in college, unless he tells him about his sexual exploits, or about his family trips or about his adolescent hobbies, unless it's music, dope or masturbation, Ginger telling him he knows he doesn't give a crap, laughing like a maniac and pushing him, Tim pulling over to avoid a car crash and sucking his face and letting him scrape his own scalp and pulling lightly at his fucked up hair until Ginger says he can't take it anymore and will come in his pants right fucking now.

They swing by a bookshop and Ginger picks out a tedious volume of epistemological bullshit which they read sitting on the beach, the cold wind roaring around them fucking up their clothes, covering them with sand and making smoking nearly impossible, both Ginger and Tim occupying their mouths with peanuts and then a dumb discussion, resulting in Ginger saying he doesn't like the book and throwing it away, Tim cheering and engaging in more appropriate beach activities, getting magnificently soiled in a number of ways.

They are not allowed to enter the movie theater on account of being absolutely filthy, Tim feeling like he's finally achieved something in life, Ginger just shrugging and touching his hand with his stupid scared fingers, which just might be so fearful for a reason. They walk around in circles, bumping into people, and chill out on benches, eating doughnuts and drinking beer and chatting, Ginger yet again bombarding Tim with his endless supply of questions and then reluctantly telling him about his dope and masturbation related adolescent hobbies, omitting the music ones because that Tim already knows everything about anyway.

They go back to Tim's house that is to be vacated soon and make a mess in the kitchen, though a much smaller one than Tim anticipated, Tim eloquently exaggerating it out of spite, Ginger telling him to fuck off, actually cooking a pretty decent looking salad with Tim's ill-mannered guidance, Tim eloquently disparaging the result to be consistent and Ginger stuffing his face both with it and with schnitzel Tim makes in addition to the salad, because fuck eating grass.

They throw their soiled clothes in the washing machine and sit in the bath for a while, Ginger washing every centimeter of Tim's body and rubbing his shoulders, running his loving tentacles over his skin in an abhorrently tender manner, his erection pressing into Tim's lower back, Tim wriggling, demanding harsher treatment and sinful sodomy and then finally getting what he's requested, the former delivered by his own hand in a form of vanilla slapping, the latter by Ginger after he licks and stretches and fingers Tim's aching hole for fourteen billion years, driving Tim even more mad than he's previously been, planting kisses on his thighs and sweeping his tongue over Tim's insuffiently tortured cock, caressing it with his soft warm wet lips, tucking his hair behind his ear and letting Tim look at him and looking at Tim until Tim says he can't take it anymore and will come in twenty seconds.

Then Ginger fucks Tim on his back, Tim wrapping his legs tight around him and getting hammered in a really emotional, warmhearted, illegal fucking fashion, Ginger asking him how he wants it and doing exactly what Tim requests, pushing in and out sharply, working his hips like a jackhammer, Tim coming like a thermonuclear motherfucker, not in twenty seconds, but still pretty soon, coming without any nice painful additions, the guilt rupturing his chest being really more than enough, Ginger fucking him through his orgasm and then some more, pressing his dumb wet face to his neck and coming inside him, sweaty, shivering, tender, familiar and welcome, pouring down on him like a waterfall of boiling plasma after that, sobbing pathetically, Tim holding him and fucking sniffing himself, his eyes full of radioactive tears.

"Why are you crying?" Ginger asks him, whispering in his ear, his breath burning Tim's skin, the words interrupted by his hiccups.

"Why are _you_ fucking crying?" Tim asks him, not whispering at all, his breath a deadly explosion gas, the words ejected out of him by the force of a disaster unfolding in his chest.

"Because I love you," Ginger says. "I fucking love you, Tim. I love you so much."

"Shut up," Tim says. "You are crying because you love me? Is there really no way for me to touch you without fucking breaking you?"

"Fuck off," Ginger says.

"Only if you fuck off as well," Tim says, wondering if there is a way for him to _stop_ touching him without breaking him.

"I'm gonna talk to John this weekend," Tim says some time later, sighing and putting out their third cigarette.

"Fuck," Ginger says and rubs his face.

"Yeah, well, it's time," Tim says. "He has a right to know. And we're moving soon. Well, if we are, that is."

"Fucking hell," Ginger says and sits up. "Tim. I am afraid, Tim. I don't want him to know. I don't want him to know what I am."

"Like I want him to know what _I_ am," Tim says and sits up as well. "Like I am not afraid."

"Fuck, Tim," Ginger says, hugging his knees. "He'll... He'll fucking ha—"

"No, he won't," Tim says, shaking his head. "Why would he hate you? He loves you. In a normal way. Like you do him. Would you hate him if this was the other way around? Would you be disgusted by him?"

"Of course not," Ginger says.

"So he won't be either."

"Fuck, Tim," Ginger says. "Can we at least not do that th—"

"No."

"Fuck, Tim," Ginger says again. "He's not you. He... Fuck, he doesn't even like this... He doesn't even like—"

Tim laughs and places his hand over Ginger's shoulder.

"Sure, he is not as much of a shit eater as we are," he says. "He _is_ a bit squeamish. Fuck, if he hadn't gotten under my corrupting influence, he'd probably be a fucking vegan now."

Ginger laughs as well.

"But that doesn't matter," Tim continues. "He doesn't have to like your shit to love you. And he _does_ fucking love you."

"He hasn't seen me like this," Ginger objects.

"He's seen some milder versions," Tim says. "And jerked off like crazy to all of them."

Ginger snorts.

"Yeah, it's kinda a recurrent theme with him," Tim says. "He's appalled by the process and the ingredients, but really loves the result. Jesus, he looks at you like you're that tune he's been trying to compose for all his life when I fuck you up."

Ginger sighs.

"He looks at me like I am a revolting cacophony," Tim adds. "Which I am. So you are really not the one who should be worried."

"Fuck," Ginger says.

"Yeah," Tim nods. "He'll hate _me_. He'll be disgusted by _me_. And I'll finally go away. I'll finally get disposed of."

"I don't want you to go away," Ginger says, his stupid scared fingers touching Tim's heartless ones. "Fuck, Tim. Please don—"

"Shut up," Tim says. "I should have fucked off long, long ago."

Ginger swallows hard.

"Can you... Can you hold me?" he asks, his stupid scared hands trembling in Tim's heartless ones.

"Of course I can hold you," Tim says, falling on the bed and pulling him closer, hugging him tight. "I can hold you and never let you go and rip you open and break you and take everything from you and turn you into nothing."

"Okay," Ginger says, wrapping his suicidal tentacles around him as well. "Please do it."

**Chapter twelve, in which the virtuoso is brought up to escape velocity.**

"You and I need to talk," Tim says, sighing and putting out his cigarette.

"Fuck," John says, startled, jumping on the bed and recoiling from him, the color leaving his face right away.

Tim laughs out loud, unable to stop himself.

"Jesus," he says. "Relax."

"Fuck you," John says, hugging himself by the shoulders. "What do you want to talk about?"

Tim hums and sits up.

"The subject is actually the same," he says, scratching the back of his neck. "But the power balance is going to be the opposite."

"Fuck," John says, biting his lips. "Start making sense."

"We need to talk about Ginger," Tim says, getting up. "About Ginger and me, to be precise."

He picks up his pants off the floor and takes out the bag of weed.

"And you might want to get wasted," he adds, throwing the weed on the bed. "This conversation is not going to be easy either."

"Fuck," John says and crosses his arms. "Is something wrong?"

Tim chuckles.

"Yeah," he says. "A lot of things."

John squints at him.

"Wait a bit, I'll roll a joint for you first," he says, proceeding with his task. "I'll explain everything soon."

John nods.

Tim finishes with his undertaking and rubs his face.

"I just have one more request before I start," he says. "Don't try throttling me. Not in your own house. It's not gonna end well."

"Jesus," John says. "You're scaring me."

Tim chuckles again.

"Just promise me you'll hear everything I have to say first," he says. "If you think I'll have to be disposed of after that, we'll come up with something sensible."

John swallows hard and nods, picking up the joint, Tim lighting it up for him, John taking drags one after another and looking at him expectantly.

"Okay, here we go," Tim says, when John's eyes become sufficiently blurry, forcing himself not to turn his face away from him. "I love Ginger. I love Ginger like I've never loved anybody in my entire fucking life."

John offers him an uncertain smile and nods again.

"Which is probably for the best," Tim continues, forcing his tongue to produce the units of speech. "Because I love him in an ugly way, John. I want to be cruel to him. I want to hurt him. I want to break him. I want to turn him into nothing."

John takes another drag, his breathing careful, as if scared.

"I want to fucking eat him," Tim says. "I want to eat him, John."

"Fuck," John says. "Are you serious?"

Tim offers him his tender shark smile.

"Fuck," John says. "You are serious."

He coughs, lifting his hand and showing Tim his palm, asking him to wait, taking several more drags and rubbing his beautiful shocked face, shivering slightly, Tim patiently expecting his reply.

"Fucking hell," John says. "Does he know?"

"Oh, _he_ knows," Tim says. "He's known since forever."

"Okay," John breathes out and finishes the joint.

"I wanna do vile things to him," Tim says. "It's fucking lucky I actually can't for the most part. Because I would. Fuck, I so would."

"Oh my God," John says and shakes. "Tim."

"Yeah," Tim says and shakes as well. "I obviously won't try anything like that. I am fucking insane, but not that insane. I won't rip his fucking throat open. Even though I want to so much. Ancient fucking gods as my witnessess."

"Okay," John says and puts his hand over his mouth.

"But the thing is, I've been doing things to him, John," Tim continues, wholeheartedly wishing to implement the same procedure on himself. "And I am not gonna stop."

John whines pathetically.

"You asked me once why I didn't tell him I loved him," Tim goes on. "Why I didn't do anything nice for him like I do for you."

He sighs and pulls out a cigarette, lighting it up and taking a deep drag.

"He fucking loves me like nobody should be allowed to," he says, smoke bursting out of his unforgivable mouth. "He loves me in an illegal way. And he thinks... Fuck, I don't even know what he thinks. That he cannot expect anything from me. That he is too pitiful a pile of goo to get anything in return."

John makes a painful noise.

"Want another joint?" Tim asks.

John nods, his eyes two frightening, nightmarish things on his pretty face.

Tim rolls him another joint.

"He would've just given everything to me if I had offered a fucking elementary particle of love to him," he says. "And I am greedy. I am not one to refuse anything. I would've just ripped everything from him. So I didn't give anything back. I didn't for the longest fucking time."

"Fuck," John says and takes a drag, his paranormal hands trembling, suspended in thin air.

"The thing is, then I did," Tim says, sighing. "I told him I loved him. I told him all about my ugly fucking feels. I asked him to stay with me. To stay with me despite everything. Despite me having told him I hated everything about him. Despite me having despised him for being a pathetic pile of goo."

"Fuck," John says, his eyes going wet. "What?"

"Oh, I did," Tim says, lowering his head, waiting for a sharp metal object to fall onto his neck from a considerable height. "When I ran away to fucking Amsterdam. That was exactly what I said to him. That was exactly what I thought of him. That was exactly what I felt."

"Oh my fucking God," John says, breaking into tears. "Does he... Does he know?"

"Oh, _he_ knows," Tim says, spitting moldy dusty feathers out. "I asked him to stay with me despite of that. Despite what I want to do to him. And he fucking agreed. Served himself on a fucking plate."

He rubs his face, listening to John hiccupping.

"We're buying a fucking house," he continues, locating his lungs once again. "We're buying a fucking house and moving in together. And there is going to be a dark room in that house for me to despise him. And there is going to be another room in that house for me to eat him. And I won't ever let him get out of there. And he knows that. And he fucking agreed to that."

He swallows hard, feeling salty water touching his bloodthirsty shark snout.

"Fuck, Tim," John says and touches him with his celestial hand. "You're fucking crying. Why are you fucking crying?"

Tim laughs out loud.

"Because of pathetic self pity, John," he readily explains. "Because I am fucking ashamed. Because he loves me and I want to hurt him for that. Because I am really just a hungry shark. That's why."

"Fuck, Tim," John whispers and squeezes his celestial hand tight, holding him by his arm.

"Ginger fucking agreed, John," Tim says, letting him do that. "He agreed and then he thanked me. He fucking _thanked_ me."

"What?" John asks, looking at him with wet blurry eyes.

"Yeah," Tim says, showing him his teeth. "He _thanked_ me, John. He stood on his knees and he slapped his face and he slapped his cock and he choked himself on mine. He stood on his knees while I was laughing at him. He kissed my horrible fucking body, John. He kissed the fucking floor I was standing on."

"Oh my God," John says, his magical fingers digging deep into Tim's indeed horrible body. "Oh my fucking God."

"He gave me all of that and I took it," Tim says, his despicable mind filling with images of digging a shallow fucking grave. "And I asked for more. Well, no, I just _took_ more. And he let me. And I've been doing vile fucking things to him ever since. And I am not planning to stop."

"Fuck, Tim," John says, whimpering. "Can you fucking hug me? Please fucking hug me."

"Of course," Tim says, pulling John's shocked body closer and hugging him and letting him sob for fourteen billion years and wiping the tears off his beautiful haunted face, lying on the bed next to him, the most terrible weapon known to humanity next to a virtuoso with a shining sword he holds above his neck.

"You are a fucking monster, Tim," John says and cracks up, pressing into him and filling his ears with silly laughter. "I fucking love you, and you are a fucking monster. Ginger fucking loves you, and you are a fucking monster."

"Yeah," Tim says, kissing his forehead.

"How do you even fucking dare?" John says, silly laughter turning into hysterical one. "Why are you even telling me? Why the fuck are you even telling me all of this?"

"You whiny fucking idiot," Tim says, pressing on his nape with his hand. "I need your help. Ginger needs your help. We both need your help."

"How can I fucking help you?" John says, pushing him away. "You're both fucking insane."

Tim chuckles, and John starts laughing again.

"You need to see what I've done to him," Tim says, looking at his beautiful wasted face and storing it in his memory for whatever short period he has left. "You need to see what I've been doing to him all this time."

"Fuck," John says, radiating waves of fear and anger. "Why?"

"Because fucking Ginger thinks you'd be disgusted with him if you knew what I turned him into," Tim says.

"Fuck," John says. "That's dumb. Why would I be disgusted with him? It's your fucking fault."

Tim smiles.

"Yeah, I know," he says. "I didn't doubt you would understand who is actually to blame here. And I tried to explain that to him. God, did I try. But he's dumb, John. He's that fucked up in the head."

"Look who's talking," John says and cracks up again.

"Exactly," Tim says. "Look how fucked up in the head I am. I am still fucking stunned by what he has in that ridiculous mind of his."

"Fuck," John says.

"So we have to get it through to him before you fucking throttle me, okay?" Tim asks. "We have to make him understand there is nothing wrong with him. And then I'll fucking kill myself if you want me to. I'll kill myself and let you two be happy. I mean, I would do it right now, but I don't want him to keep thinking this shit about himself."

"Fuck," John says. "Are you serious?"

Tim offers him his tender shark smile once more.

"Fuck," John says. "You are serious."

He laughs out loud, shaking on the bed.

"Fuck, you are wasted," Tim says, sitting up. "Come on. Let's wash your beautiful face and stuff your pretty mouth with something. Then I'll go away. You don't fucking need to answer me right this second."

"Fuck you," John says, slapping him. "I don't want you to go away. I need your fucking support. Don't fucking leave me here."

"Jesus, you're fucked up," Tim says. "Alright. I'll leave in the morning, okay? Before you wake up. Deal?"

"Okay," John nods. "Deal."

Tim drags him to the bathroom after that, washing salt off his beautiful face.

Tim drags him to the kitchen next, looking for salt in there for ages and then stuffing his pretty mouth.

Tim drags him back to bed at the end, shoving a sleeping pill in his pretty mouth and looking at his beautiful face once he falls asleep, studying him as if he is a shining creature made of light and obnoxious giggling who decides his fate, which he most definitely is and most definitely does, leaving quietly in the morning before he wakes up.

Tim spends the next ten days being threatened by imminent throttling.

Tim spends the next ten days being summoned to John's house by John's angry voice on the phone, Ginger's terrified tender tentacles hugging him goodbye in the doorway every time he leaves his own place and John's frankly furious hands pulling him inside every time he arrives at his.

Tim spends the next ten days explaining John the ontology of his and Ginger's relationships after they hide every sharp object and every heavy object in another room, providing him with education, giving him the full extent, going into incredible detail, teaching him how to read the signs he's seen all along but hasn't completely understood, filling in the blanks, going as far back as that distant moment in time when he woke up and exited the bus and kicked the rock with his boot, describing everything he's done and everything he wants to do, every amazing arrangement of his he made Ginger go through and every amazing arrangement of his he would make him go through given the opportunity, reciting everything he's ever said and everything he's made Ginger say, letting him know exactly how much he pulled out of him and exactly how ruthlessly he did it, tearing his own nuclear chest open before John and for John and for Ginger, showing him his blood covered teeth, showing him Ginger's broken body and Ginger's broken mind between his jaws, showing him exactly what he is, John sitting on the bed, hugging himself by the shoulders, shaking, staring at him, white-faced and wide-eyed, listening to him, not listening to him, interrupting him, insulting him, kicking him, slapping him, punching him, throwing him out of the house and calling the next day, demanding his immediate arrival and his immediate confession and his immediate execution, Tim never objecting, because why would he, and accepting the blame, because why wouldn't he, Ginger's terrified tender tentacles wiping the tears off his face in the doorway every time he comes back, Ginger himself also sobbing, John sobbing as well, all three of them creating the ocean Tim is absolutely sure he will be banished from.

On eleventh day Tim accepts his own fate and makes peace with it.

On eleventh day John accepts the future and agrees to stand witness to the frightening, nightmarish thing Tim fully intends to do.

On eleventh day Ginger accepts everything Tim tells him is going to happen no matter what he thinks about it, shuddering, crying, standing on his knees in front of Tim, looking up at him with illegal fucking devotion, telling him he loves him.

**Chapter thirteen, in which a testimony is given by a witness.**

"Come in," Tim says, opening the door and letting John in his house.

A really jittery looking John.

Tim sighs.

"Come here," he says, pulling him into a hug.

"Fuck," John breathes out.

They stand like that for a while in the dark corridor.

"We can do it some other time," Tim offers finally, his chest tight.

"Fuck," John says. "No."

"Alright," Tim says, placing his hands on his shoulders and looking him in the eye, openly showing him his inner demons. "You do understand that it is going to be really ugly?"

"Yes," John says, swallowing hard.

"And actual shit is going to be involved," Tim continues.

"Fuck, yes," John says, shivering. "I understand. You've fucking explained everything to me like ten times already. Fuck."

"Okay," Tim says. "I just... Fuck, just don't run out of the fucking room, alright? He's not gonna survive that."

"Of course I won't," John says. "I love him."

Tim exhales the last portion of air out of his lungs.

"We'll figure out what is to be done about me here after we're finished," he says, releasing John's shoulders. "You'll tell me what your final decision is."

John nods, and they go into the room.

"Okay, you pathetic Cthulhu," Tim says, towering over Ginger sitting there on the bed naked, shifting awkwardly, John pulling up a chair and sitting down as well, as far from them as possible. "Time to get eaten."

"Tim, I..." Ginger starts, looking up at him.

"What? Want me to kiss you goodbye?" Tim asks, a painful smile on his lips.

Ginger nods, and Tim swallows down the last portion of his warm breaking breath he'll ever get.

He straightens up. Ginger stares at him for a second and then looks away from him, glancing at John sitting there in a chair as far from the bed as possible. Ginger licks his lips and shifts again.

"Fuck," he says. "John—"

"Forget about John for now," Tim says, turning his face back. "I mean, he loves you and everything, but it is not important now. You're my food now. You'll writhe for me now. You'll do anything I tell you to do. Okay?"

"Okay," Ginger says and gulps.

"Perfect," Tim says. "Come on. Thank me for my fucking love. Start expressing your enormous fucking gratitude."

The pathetic Cthulhu starts expressing his enormous gratitude right after that.

The pathetic Cthulhu slaps his dumb face for Tim, whimpering and jumping at the blows, Tim laughing at him and shaking his head, trashing his poor self-flagellation skills.

The pathetic Cthulhu opens his dumb mouth for Tim, confessing his non-existent sins, admitting what he is, giving a pretty accurate assessment of his own nature, Tim laughing at him and shaking like a menacing warhead, listening to the last symphony he'll ever get to hear.

The pathetic Cthulhu hold his legs open for Tim, sobbing and chanting his name, Tim stretching his hole and informing him of exciting discovery he's made by conducting this purely unscientific research, drawing a frightening, nightmarish seizure out of him, almost falling prey to a frightening, nightmarish seizure of his own, gritting his blood covered teeth.

The pathetic Cthulhu lets Tim fuck himself, showing him his throat that Tim wants to rip open and asking him to do just that, pleading with him to do just that, begging him to do just that, coming with frightening, nightmarish words of love on his lips, Tim shattering into elementary particles on top of him for the last time in his fucked up life, the wicked, appalling plutonium in his chest imploding, filling him with radioactive fondness, Tim drowning the world around them in pathetic Cthulhu's blood.

The pathetic Cthulhu lets Tim haul him up by his hair, presenting him with his dumb face again, Tim wiping the hand he pulled out his soiled cock with on it. The pathetic Cthulhu opens his dumb mouth for Tim again, Tim shoving his cock inside, drawing frightening, nightmarish moans out of him, the pathetic Cthulhu choking on his own filth just like Tim tells him to, Tim coming down his gulping throat he wants to, but now will never get to rip open, having the last orgasm of his runaway process of a life, having finished his last supper.

Tim lets go of Ginger and straightens up, moving like a zombie shark whose days are numbered, the rigor mortis overtaking his horrible body, Ginger staring at him as if he is his last hope, Tim taking several steps back and turning his own rotting carcass and his own ugly unforgivable snout to face the shining creature made of light who stood witness to all of this, prepared to place his neck under his sword.

The shining creature made of light stands up, white-faced and wide-eyed, hand pressed tight over his mouth, shocked and damaged that much not even fucking Alzheimer's is going to absolve him of his burden put on him by Tim's heartless hands, looking ready to run out of the room, Tim's nuclear warhead of a heart skipping a beat and then stopping entirely, Tim thinking of a tripple murder-suicide he most definitely will have to commit now, Ginger disintegrating on the bed, going into shock, wailing like a dying sea animal.

The shining creature made of light takes several steps forward, falling on his knees in front of Ginger, wrapping his colorful arms around him and kissing his dumb soiled face, kissing his soft warm shit eating mouth, shuddering and telling Ginger to shut up, telling him he loves him, telling him nothing here is his fault and nobody here is disgusted with him, dragging him up, dragging him to the bathroom, pouring him on the toilet and holding his dumb soiled face in his celestial hands while Ginger does what Tim told him he would have to do, Tim following them there, moving his rotting corpse of a body, stumbling on unsteady feet, towering over them on shaking legs, unable to hear what they are saying to each other, unable to see what they are doing, having no eyes and no ears and no physical form, being just pure unadulterated guilt.

"What are you doing, John?" Ginger asks, sobbing. "I am covered in shit. It's disgusting. I am disgusting. You don't even like fucking shit."

"Of course I don't like fucking shit," John says, shivering. "It is disgusting. You are not. I love you. I love you even when you are covered in shit."

Ginger laughs hysterically.

John puts his own soiled lips on his soiled lips.

"I don't like anybody's shit," John says, hugging him. "It's not fucking personal. I don't like your shit, but I love you. I don't like Tim's fucking shit he asks me to fist, but I love that crazy fucker too. I don't like my own shit. Do you think I shit something different than you do?"

"Don't know," Ginger says, falling into his arms. "Maybe you shit treble fucking clefs."

John laughs hysterically.

"Come on," he says. "Let me help you up."

Tim watches John help Ginger up.

Tim watches them hug and kiss again.

Tim hears them exchange eternal love confessions.

Tim chokes on chocolate for the last time in his life.

Tim takes a step back, leaving the bathroom and leaving these two to be happy without him.

"Where the fuck do you think you are going, you monster?!" John yells, grabbing him by the arm. "Fucking hold us already. Don't you see we're gonna fucking flop on the floor right now?"

The sudden flow of air hurts Tim's lungs.

"Fuck," he spits out. "Don't you want me to kill myself?"

"Jesus," John hisses. "Of course not. Are you insane?"

"I don't want you to kill yourself," Ginger whispers.

Tim laughs hysterically.

"Alright then," he says after fourteen billion years. "Come on. You both need a shower. And to throw up. I don't want you two to get an E. coli poisoning. I would have to help you. Suffer through your pathetic whining and everything."

All three of them laugh hysterically.

Tim makes the soiled pair of bastards drink a gallon of water each, bending them over the sink and holding their hair while they vomit, forcibly shoving antibiotics in their protesting mouths.

Tim makes the soiled pair of bastards sit in the bath together, pouring water over their heads, washing their hair, rubbing their shoulders, letting them kiss each other's sugary mouths.

Tim makes the spectacularly clean pair of bastards lie in his bed together, covering them with blankets and falling on the floor where he belongs, listening to them doing their whispery thing, catching his own name in the continuous string of units of speech, catching his own name spoken with frightening, nightmarish affection, falling asleep to that lullaby, feeling his horrible body being dragged back into the ocean, warm dark glorious waves engulfing him and filling him up.

**Chapter fourteen, in which a cornerstone is set in place.**

"The fuck is this?!" John yelps, startled.

"Oh, the lady?" Tim inquires, turning to him. "That's Fortuna. This is my pagan temple room."

"Not the fucking lady," John says, squinting at him. "This fucking shit."

"Oh," Tim says and chuckles. "That's a pig's head. It's kinda obvious, isn't it?"

"Jesus," John says. "What's it doing here?"

"Waiting to be put in the middle between the three of us while we sit on cocks?" Tim offers. "If you brought the tentacle one you wouldn't for the love of God return to me, that is."

"Fuck," John says, covering his eyes with his hand. "Are you even serious?"

Tim laughs out loud.

"Now you're asking," he says, shaking his head. "Of course I am. I want us to sit on cocks in a circle with a pig's head in the middle. To make sure this house will be as full of sexual degeneracy as my previous one was. It's like... an initiation. And a really old phantasy of mine."

"It's fucking ugly," John says, staring at the head. "Why is it in a bucket?"

"Because I am pickling it for baking," Tim explains. "It's our celebratory dinner."

"Fucking hell," John says, walking out of Tim's pagan temple room. "I am out of here."

"What's your problem?" Tim asks, following him walking out, John landing on the couch next to Ginger.

"I don't want to sit on a fucking cock next to a pig's head," John says. "I don't want to eat a fucking pig's head covered in come either."

"Why would it be covered in come?" Tim asks, grinning. "I mean, if you want me to add it, I ca—"

"Fuck, shut up," John says, Ginger taking his hand in his own and sighing. "I don't want to eat a fucking pig's head, period. It's fucking weird."

"Of course it is," Tim says, nodding and sitting down next to John. "Come on. In the spirit of everything that is wrong with us."

"Ginj," John says. "Why don't you say anything? This is sick."

"Oh, he knows better than that," Tim says.

"Fuck you," Ginger says. "John, just let him have it. It's just for this time. And we're probably gonna fucking like it anyway. Fuck."

"Smart little squid," Tim says. "John, kiss him for me."

"Fuck off," John says and kisses Ginger. "Jesus, alright. Let's come all over a goddamn pig's head."

Tim laughs and gets up.

"Come on, I'll show you the other rooms," he says, giving John his hand. "Ginj, you're gonna be here?"

"Yeah, sorry," Ginger says, touching his temple. "I'm still waiting for the pill to kick in."

"No probs," Tim says. "Tell me if you don't feel up to it. We'll postpone my witchcoven exercise till tomorrow."

"Sure," Ginger says, smiling weakly at him.

An hour later Tim drags the pig's head out of his pagan temple room and puts it on a tray, ordering the kissing bastards to undress and take the dildos out.

"Fuck, it _is_ sick," Ginger says, standing next to John sitting on the floor and staring at the thing like a goddamn martyr.

"Shut up," Tim says. "This is like basic level sick. I can fucking upgrade it and you know it."

"Fucking hell," Ginger says, sighing and sitting down as well. "Alright."

"That's better," Tim says, admiring the pair from above. "John, move closer to him. Help him with your sugary chitchat if shit fucking goes wrong, okay? I don't want fuck ups here. This arrangement is very dear to me."

"Sure," John says. "What are we waiting for?"

"For the evil incantation I am going to deliver right now," Tim says.

John nods and Ginger nods and Tim nods as well for greater camaraderie and speaks in mother tongue, listing every important item in his global catastrophe of a life.

"... _bottenlös håla, läcker skit, anal utplåning, kinky fötter, transsexuell tårta, nippelklämmor, hundställningen, smutsiga underkläder_ ," Tim finishes his exclamation, the stupid bastards staring at him, looking perplexed. "Now we can commence."

*

Bottomless pit, tasty shit, anal obliteraion, kinky feet, transsexual cake, nipple clamps, doggy style, dirty underwear.

Tim watches the pair of dumb fucks moan into each other's mouths over pig's head, John moving like a filthy liquid, Ginger stumbling pathetically, John's talented hand playing his favorite guitar, Ginger's scared hand stuttering on John's instrument, Tim applying his own pliers to his cock as well, cheerfully hopping on the dildo, pushing the pig's head away once things heat up to the boiling point, crawling closer to the moaning fucks, choking on their sugar, watching both bastards come one after another, pulling each other's hair slightly and falling down next to each other, shivering and hugging, saying two four letter words over and over again, Tim pulling his own trap wide open and coming as well, collapsing behind Ginger and slapping John's hand attempting to free him of his kernel away.

"Not so fast," he says. "The ritual is not over yet. We aren't just any old witches here. We're a shitsorcery coven."

Ginger shudders and John frowns.

"Want to suck some filth for me, squid?" Tim asks, taking the cock out of Ginger and then turning his head up by his hair.

Ginger gulps and makes an uncertain noise, glancing at John.

"It's okay, Ginj," John says and touches Ginger's feverish face, both his voice and his hand soft. "I really don't mind, you know. I love you. You're fucking hot."

"Fuck," Ginger says, letting out a loud breath. "Okay. Yeah. God, yes."

"Come here," Tim says, chuckling and sitting up, dragging Ginger along, his head landing in his lap, John sitting up as well and taking Ginger's hand in his own. "I'll feed you your favorite shit."

Ginger looks up at him and looks up at John and opens his warm soft mouth and licks the dildo Tim holds right next to his lips and sucks the dildo Tim then pushes inside, moaning around it, radiating waves of heat and tender vibration and two different types of affection and two different types of gratitude, and John looks at him and bites his lips and looks down at Ginger and says he loves him and holds his shaking hand, giving him his support and his kindness, showing him his pretty normal affection, and Tim looks at John and smirks and looks down at Ginger and smirks and says he loves him too and palms his throat he fucks with the dildo, showing him his teeth and his ugly affection, giving him nothing, taking everything away from him and turning him into nothing as well.

Tim leaves the pair to whisper in bed and goes to the kitchen to deal with the pig's head, sprinkling it with seasoning and spraywing it with brandy, shoving it into the oven and looking through a cook book, thinking what kind of ugly cake to bake for John this time.

"Tim," John says, appearing in the kitchen too.

"What?" Tim asks without turning his head. "Hungry already? Sorry, you'll have to wait. This thing takes forever to get properly roasted. Have some cookies."

"I... No," John says, sounding confused and confusing. "I wanted to ask something."

"Shoot," Tim says, looking up at him looking confused and confusing as well.

There is a pause after that.

"Why did you look at the dildo?" John hurries out in one go.

"Sorry?" Tim asks.

"You looked at the dildo," John says, licking his lips. "When you pulled it out of Ginj. Why?"

"Oh," Tim says, feeling caught.

"Fuck," John says. "Look, I said I wouldn't... _interfere_. But this is... Fuck, if there was something there, you shoul—"

"Shut up," Tim chuckles, feeling surprised. "There was nothing there."

"Then why the fuck did you look at it?" John asks, frowning.

"Jesus," Tim says and grabs the cigarette package. "To check there was nothing there?"

"Oh."

"What? You were thinking I was doing the opposite? Checking to make sure there was _something_ there?"

John produces a really perplexing and perplexed noise. Tim lights up a cigarette and takes a drag.

"I..." John starts again. "I didn't know you were doing that. I thought..."

Tim laughs.

"I don't always do that," he says, puffing out the smoke. "I don't always have enough processing power, you know. But I try. E. coli poisoning kinda sucks. And sick Ginger _really_ sucks."

"That's..." John says.

"Yeah, that's dumb, I know," Tim nods. "It's a fucking bacterium. My stupid eyes are not equipped with a microscope."

"No," John says. "I mean, that's... sweet?"

Tim laughs again, shaking his head.

"It's not," he says. "I don't want him to eat actual shit, but I fully want him to think he does. Ruins him beautifully every time. Very tasty."

"Fuck," John says and shivers. "Fuck you."

"Yeah, that's more appropriate," Tim says and messes up his hair. "Don't fucking tell him. Don't you dare spoil my entertainment. He's my food, John."

John clenches his fists.

"And he'll probably freak out," Tim adds. "We'll have to feed him the real thing again."

John sighs.

"Okay," he says. "Fuck, okay."

"Cool," Tim says. "Anything else?"

John looks around the kitchen for a second.

"You know, if you ever feel like changing your decision..." Tim starts.

"No!" John says. "Fuck, Tim, no. I fucking love you. Why do you think I'd want you to kill yourself?"

Tim snorts.

"Because I want to eat and mutilate Ginger for loving me, for example?" he offers. "Because I am seriously fucked up? Because I am fucking sick?"

"Fuck," John says, hugging himself by the shoulders. "You _are_ sick. But... Fuck, I mean, you wouldn't actually do that, would you?"

"Of course not," Tim says. "But what I am doing is not an epitome of health either."

"Well, maybe I am also sick," John spits out and shakes.

"Most likely," Tim nods and sighs. "Come here."

John comes closer and they wrap their arms around each other, standing like that for several minutes.

Tim plants a kiss on John's forehead and pulls away.

"Come on," he says. "If you don't want me to shoot myself in the head, then don't fucking disturb me. I'm trying to choose a cake for you here."

John laughs.

"Okay," he says. "Okay."

John takes a step towards the door and Tim picks up the cook book.

"Do you..." John speaks again, stopping.

"What?"

"Do you check when you do it?" John asks.

"God, no," Tim says, scoffing. "I am disgusting, remember? And I want to eat him. For real, need I remind you. Shit's like one of the substitutes I can actually get."

"Fucking hell," John says, shivering again. "You _are_ disgusting."

Tim chuckles.

"I love how this is what you are worried about," he says, shaking his head. "Go on. Fuck off. Let me cook."

Three hours later they have the celebratory dinner, John traditionally stuffing his face the most and not only with cake, being delightfully inconsistent and really succeptible to Tim's culinary voodoo, Ginger following suit and beaming with happiness, being delightfully suicidal and really succeptible to Tim's radioactive magic, Tim watching them with a tender shark smile on his lips, one fucked up specimen observing two others, sitting there gorging on a fucked up dinner in a fucked up house, feeling blessed, feeling damned, feeling criminally happy.

**Chapter fifteen, in which stories come true.**

"Thinking about sucking me off, aren't you?" Tim asks, smirking, looking at Ginger's soft warm open mouth, running his heartless fingers over his cock.

Ginger nods, letting out a wet breath, the soft warm air flowing inside Tim's hungry trap.

"Sweet," Tim says, rubbing the tip of Ginger's cock. "Let's talk about it. You like me looking at you when you do it, don't you? Looking at your dumb face. Touching your lips you love being ravaged so much."

"Yes," Ginger says, blushing at his words.

"What do you like more, when you suck me yourself or when I fuck your mouth for you?" Tim asks, wrapping his hand around his cock.

"Fuck," Ginger says, shivering at the touch. "When you do it."

"And what do you prefer, when I guide your head and or when I hold you in place and stuff your throat myself?" Tim inquires, gripping him tight and turning his hand slightly.

"Oh God," Ginger says, crying out at the pain. "Tim."

"Answer me," Tim insists, applying even more pressure. "You like me fucking your shit eating face, don't you? Like me fucking your gulping throat raw."

"I uh..." Ginger says, breaking into tears. "Yes. Fuck, yes."

"Fucking food," Tim says, releasing him entirely, a tender shark smile playing on his lips. "I'm gonna pull every goddamn centimeter of your intestines out of you now, Ginger."

Ginger shakes.

"Okay," he squeezes out. "I know."

Tim laughs.

"Come here, I'll kiss your front entrance," he says, pulling Ginger closer and doing exactly what he said.

"I love you," Ginger says, when they part.

"Idiot," Tim says and runs his fingers over his cock again. "Let's get back to torture. Let's talk about your filthy rear exit. How do you like me fucking your pathetic shithole?"

Ginger just moans at that, Tim moving his hand up and down slowly.

"You like me hurting your scared orifice, don't you?" he asks, looking at Ginger's eyes going black. "Like holding yourself open and just taking it, right?"

"Oh fuck," Ginger says, feverish and panting.

"What, you need more encouragement?" Tim asks again, wrapping his hand around his cock tighter. "I'm gonna give you some."

He squeezes Ginger's cock between his fingers, straining his arm, Ginger letting out a continuous howl.

"You like letting me fuck your filth like I want to, don't you, Ginger?" he inquires once more. "Like being a pile of shit for me to come into."

"Yes, fuck, yes," Ginger surrenders, writhing in pain right next to him.

Tim laughs and lets go of him again.

"Fucking jelly," he says and lifts his hand, tucking his wet hair behind his ear. "Wanna tell me how much you love me now?"

Of course, Ginger wants to.

Of course, Ginger does.

"I love you too," Tim says. "I'm loving you right now."

Ginger lets out a pained laugh.

"Alright, further evisceration time," Tim says, starting to touch him again. "Let's compare your holes. Which one do you like fucked more, your pitiful ass or your miserable mouth?"

Ginger begins to fracture, limiting his participation in the conversation to repeating Tim's name over and over again, making Tim do all the hard work as usual.

Not that he minds.

"If _I_ had to choose, I'd say ass," Tim says contemplatively, rubbing the underside of Ginger's cock. "I love your ass. It's tight. And more shitty."

Ginger continues with his chanting.

"But then again, I can always feed you your crap," Tim continues with his monologue. "Make your mouth equally soiled. Asked you a rather dumb question, didn't I, don't you think?"

Ginger obviously doesn't think anything at the moment, Tim's hand tugging at his cock, Tim's other hand tugging at his guts.

"The best option would be to somehow do both at the same time," Tim adds. "Wouldn't you like that? Wouldn't you like both of your filthy holes to be stuffed at the same time? Wouldn't you like that more than anything?"

He squeezes and twists Ginger's cock again, drawing savory things out of him.

"Yes, Tim," Ginger says, squirming on the cutting board. "Yes, I would."

Tim removes his hand and wipes the tears off his face, licking his fingers.

"Will you come for me?" he asks, admiring the disemboweled squid in front of him. "Will you come like this for me?"

Ginger doesn't answer right away.

"Come on, don't cry right now," Tim says, running his palm over his arm. "I'll let you sob later. Will you come while I pull your intenstines out of you? Will you do that for me?"

"Fuck," Ginger says, shaking and shattering. "Yes."

"Lick my palm," Tim says, placing his hand over Ginger's mouth. "You're gonna fuck my accommodating hand and I'm gonna tell you about a brilliant idea of mine."

Ginger licks his palm and Tim wraps it around him, nudging him to start rocking his hips slowly.

"I can put you on your back, head hanging off the bed," Tim says, looking at his disintegrating face and swallowing his disintegrating body. "Stuff your hole with a dildo. Fuck your mouth while you hold yourself open. How does it sound for now? Like it?"

"Yes," Ginger says, looking back at him with devotion, falling into his mouth.

"Cool," Tim says, smirking. "Then I can pull the dildo out. Stuff your mouth with it. Let you enjoy eating your filth while I fuck your shitty ass. Would you do it?"

"Fuck," Ginger says, moaning. "Fuck, yes."

"Great," Tim says. "Then we can switch the items once more. Shove the dildo back in your shitty ass. And I'll fuck your soiled mouth again. Come down your filthy throat. Feed you more of your shit while you writhe on cock for me like a moron. Make you absolutely ruined. It is a brilliant idea, isn't it? Wanna get ruined for me like that?"

"Oh fuck," Ginger says. "Fuck, Tim. Yes."

His hips start to stutter and Tim grips him tighter, squeezing his awesome cock and gnawing on his own awesome meal.

"Perfect," Tim says. "But I won't let you come. I'll pull the dildo out once I do. Make you suck it as well. And leave you like that. You'll be my fucksewer."

"Oh my God," Ginger says. "Of my fucking God. Tim."

Tim laughs, tearing his abdomen apart, ripping him open, turning him inside out.

"Come for me, Ginger," he says, full of Ginger's raw meat. "Tell me you want to be my fucksewer and come for me. Let me eat you. Let me fucking gut you."

Ginger comes for him.

"I love you, Tim," he says and comes for him.

"I want to be your fucksewer, Tim," he says and comes for him.

"I'll let you do anything, Tim," he says and comes for him, pushing into his accommodating hand, sweaty, feverish, shuddering and wailing, gutted and eaten and beautilful, broken by Tim's cruelty.

Ginger comes for him and Tim swallows him whole.

"Hey, Ginj," Tim says, lighting up a cigarette. "Let's actually do it."

They lie in bed, Tim on his back, Ginger on top of him.

They lie in bed, Ginger being a squid goo, Tim digesting him.

They lie in bed after Ginger comes for Tim and Tim locates his own molten cock and comes as well, comes for nobody in particular, not for Ginger and not for himself, both of them barely even present, destroyed by the nuclear blast, destroyed by Tim.

They lie in bed after Ginger comes for Tim and Tim comes for nobody in particular and lets Ginger sob for fourteen billion years.

They lie in bed after all of that and Tim lights up their third cigarette.

"Hey, Ginj," he says. "Let's actually do it."

"What?" Ginger asks, turning his head up to look at him.

"The fucksewer thing," Tim says, smiling.

Ginger shivers.

"Fuck," he says, swallowing hard and taking a drag, Tim offering him the smoke. "Are you still fucking chewing on me?"

"Nah, just licking my fingers," Tim says, chuckling. "Come on, tell me, would you let me do it? Evaluate the brilliance of my idea rationally. Now that you're in your right mind. Well, relatively speaking."

"Fuck you," Ginger says and flips over slowly, grabbing at the beer and taking a swig. "It's fucking sick."

"Too degrading?" Tim asks, snatching the bottle away from him. "I'm kinda inspired by it myself, so it probably is. Fuck, I'd love to be a fucksewer for you. If you could actually pull off doing that to me. And if I were that excited about eating my own feces as you are."

"Fucking hell," Ginger says, shaking. "You _are_ still fucking chewing on me. Haven't you had enough?"

Tim laughs and kisses his dumb mouth full of questions.

"Enough?" he says. "Seriously?"

Ginger laughs as well, sounding broken.

Which he most definitely is.

"Fuck," Ginger says, his voice unsteady. "Okay. If you want me to. Fuck. Why are you even asking? Of course I'll let you do it. I _am_ a goddamn fucksewer."

"Yeah," Tim says, shoving the cigarette between his lips. "You are my fucksewer. You are my perfect fucking jelly. You're my most cherished food. And I love you for that."

"Fuck you," Ginger says, puffing out the miserable smoke. "Fuck you, Tim."

"We will amend the arrangement I described, though," Tim says, pulling him closer. "Make it into a nice sweet sugary fuck. Fatten you up a bit for my next meal. You're all bones."

"Jesus," Ginger says, pressing into him with his illegal affectionate tentacles. "Are you even serious? How can this... this fucking thing... How can it be nice?"

Tim laughs softly and puts his snout in Ginger's hair.

"You underestimate me," he says. "Let me tell you. First of all, obviously I'll let you come."

"Yeah?" Ginger asks, voice uncertain.

"Of course," Tim scoffs. "Why wouldn't I let you come? You coming is like my favorite thing in the world. I fucking treasure it. I fucking worship your orgasms."

"Okay," Ginger says. "Thank you."

"Anytime," Tim says, smirking. "And I'll fuck your delicious orifices gently. Well, mostly. Tell you exactly what I love about your soiled fuckholes. Maybe even use a more polite language."

"Alright," Ginger says. "Fuck, it's still sick."

"Of course it is," Tim says. "I'll also kiss both of them afterwards. I'll fuck your mouth while you lie there with a dildo up your ass, and then I'll fuck your ass while you suck the filth off it, and then I'll put it back in your crappy hole and come down your throat. And then you'll come down mine and clench around the dildo for me. And I'll kiss your dirty hole and your dirty mouth after that. Lick your delicious shit off you. So you'll be a fucksewer, but like a deeply loved one."

"God, Tim," Ginger says, the shivering plasma of his body engulfing him. "You're fucking insane."

"We'll do it next weekend," Tim says, wrapping the blanket around him. "Let's sleep now."

They do it next weekend.

Tim puts Ginger on the bed on his back, his head hanging off it, and makes him hold himself open, quickly stretching him and shoving the glass dildo up his ass while Ginger moans pathetically.

Tim puts out his cigarette after that and fucks Ginger's mouth, standing on the floor and towering over him, rocking his hips slowly, pushing in and out, telling Ginger about his soft warm lips he loves having around his cock, about his soft warm accommodating mouth he loves stuffing with his own shit, about his gulping throat that needs to be ripped open he loves fucking raw, looking at his sweaty shaking pitiful body underneath him, at his beautiful twitching cock, at his bony knees and his white hands, at his gulping throat that needs to ripped open he is currently fucking rather cautiously, telling him about plutonium imploding in his chest and blood overrunning his mouth, telling him nothing makes him more happy, telling him he loves him, telling the truth.

Tim pulls out and switches the items, holding Ginger's legs open himself, rocking his hips slowly, pushing in and out, telling Ginger about his tight slick problematic hole he loves diving in with his tongue, his fingers and his cock, about his warm accommodating hole full of diarrhea he loves hurting, about his pathetic stumbling he cannot live without, about him lying there and taking it and making him euphoric, looking at his soaking wet shuddering shattering body underneath him, at his beautiful neglected cock, at his rib cage he wants to stick his heartless hands into, at his gulping throat Ginger fucks with the dildo covered in his own filth, moaning around it and pulsing around Tim's cock, looking at all of that and telling him he loves him and wants to eat him and will never have enough of him, being happy, being sincere, being euphoric.

Tim pulls out again and switches the items again, taking the dildo out of Ginger's shaking surrendering hand, shoving it back in his ass and sitting on top of him, holding his head gently, fingers combing his hair and wiping the tears off Ginger's feverish face, unable to say anything, nuclear explosions blocking the air, not letting the units of speech out, looking down at Ginger, smiling a tender shark smile at him, watching him lick his filth off his cock, watching him take it between his soft warm soiled lips, watching him open his accommodating shit eating mouth for him with a delicious sob, admiring Ginger staring up at him with frightening, nightmarish awe, with fucked up reverence, with his illegal fucking love, taking it all from him and coming down his gulping throat, fucking it raw.

Tim pulls out once more, depleted and hungry, dead gutted radioactive shark, Tim pulls out once more and holds the dildo, telling Ginger to give it to him, looking at his molten disintegrated body in front of him, looking at him writhing on cock, fucking himself awkwardly, jerking his stuttering hips up and down, straining his legs, looking at his gulping throat and his heaving chest and his beautiful swaying cock, taking it in his mouth, sucking him off, making him come like a unique specimen he is, swallowing his junk that's spilling out of him, swallowing his raspy words of disturbing affection that're spilling out of him as well, swallowing him whole, devouring his pulsing hole, licking his filth off it, devouring his moaning mouth, licking his filth off it as well, devouring him with all his junk and all his moans and all his filth, eating him and loving him and breaking him by kindness.

**Chapter sixteen, in which the prey-predator equations are being creatively solved without any use of differential algebra.**

"Hey," Tim says, poking into the bathroom, John standing there naked, performing enthusiastic fellatio on a toothbrush. "Keep forgetting to tell you."

"Mhaf?" John asks, his pretty mouth full of toothpaste.

"There is this new Japanese restaurant we absolutely have to go to," Tim says, grinning like an idiot, unable to help himself.

"Wfhuy?" John asks and then spits the toothpaste out. "Why?"

"Because they serve shark in there," Tim readily explains.

"How many times do I need to tell you?!" John asks, gorging on Tim's saltless, but still amazing breakfast, his pretty mouth full again. "I am not eating fucking shark. It's disgusting."

"This is just herring all over again," Tim says, downing his coffee. "Come on. You'll like it."

"No!"

"Come on," Tim says. "We need to finally involve you in our sick metaphorical cannibalism thing."

"Jesus," John says.

"Come on," Tim says again. "You'll get to watch how I fuck with Ginger's pathetic mind without even touching him. I'll feed him squid and he'll get hard and everything. Don't you secretly love Ginger getting hard and writhing for me?"

"Fuck off," John says. "Fucking thank me I let you do this crazy stuff of yours at all."

"Thank you," Tim says. "Come on. You'll get to chop me like you've wanted to since forever. Fuck with me by obnoxious giggling. I'll get stiff and everything. Don't you openly love me getting stiff and writhing for you?"

John giggles obnoxiously.

"That's better," Tim says. "You juvenile fucking sadist."

John sticks his tongue out at him. Tim lights up a cigarette.

"And then I'll do some cheerful hopping on your cocks, okay?" he continues. "Ruin Ginger some more. And you can destroy my repulsive fucking hole. Call me names and everything."

John puts on a thoughtful expression.

"What, still not enough?" Tim asks. "Fuck, you're greedy, praise be upon you. Dirty underwear? Ugly cake? Listening to your fucking bluegrass?"

"Okay," John says. "Alright."

"Which option?"

John squints at him.

"Oh," Tim chuckles. "All of them? Sure. You spoiled jerk."

They go to a new Japanese restaurant that serves shark three days later, Tim making a call and requesting a separate room, expecting debauchery and not being wrong, applying his premonition skills wisely, ordering a shit ton of weird stuff, a dancing cuttlefish for himself, squid ink pasta for Ginger and shark sashimi for John, looking at the pair of stupid bastards and grinning like a maniac.

"Come here," Tim says, pulling Ginger closer and lifting the fork. "Open your dumb mouth."

Ginger whines quietly and follows his instructions, letting him stuff his face with squid and sucking his fingers, shivering and breathing audibly, Tim whispering in his ear, expressing his profound love for him and being really clear about what that actually entails.

"Fuck," John says, gasping, and downs a glass of water.

Ginger shakes and freezes for a second.

"Hey," Tim says. "Nobody is being judgy here. Well, not towards you."

"I uh..." Ginger starts.

"You're just making everybody hard," Tim says. "John, you _are_ hard, right?"

"Fuck," John says again. "Yes."

"Awesome," Tim says. "Come on, squid. Cannibalize yourself for me. John's gonna jerk off to that later."

"God," John says and whines.

"Tim," Ginger says and moans.

"Fuck," Tim says and smirks.

He watches the pair of stupid bastards kiss after both squids are done with, John hugging the one that still remains in the room, telling him he's hot and that he loves him and showing him hard evidence supporting that and touching his as well, Tim washing down the squid that is completely gone now with beer, magnificently stiff himself.

"Okay, stop with this cuddly bullshit," he says after a while. "I want to be eaten too. Open your pretty mouth, John."

John lets go of Ginger and his favorite guitar, Ginger grabbing at Tim's beer and sniffing, Tim picking up a slice of sashimi with chopsticks and offering it to John with a nasty smile.

"I am not gonna get food poisoning, am I?" John asks, eyeing the meat suspiciously. "It's fucking raw."

Tim rolls his eyes.

"Shut up and eat already," he insists. "There is nothing worse than a reluctant predator."

"Fuck you," John says and lets him stuff his face with shark, starting to moan with his mouth full after several seconds, the sound doing nothing to make Tim's cock less aching, snatching the plate away from him after several more seconds and gorging on Tim's metaphorical flesh.

Tim swings his arm around Ginger's shoulder.

"Look at him," he says. "I'm so proud."

Ginger laughs softly.

"Can I try?" he asks.

"What?"

"Can I try the meat?"

"No, that's wrong," Tim says, feeling genuinely offended. "The food chain should be respected. I eat you, Ginger. Not the other way around."

"Fuck you," Ginger says, the sound coming out breathy and doing nothing to make Tim less hungry. "I just want to try the fucking meat."

"Let him fucking try," John says. "It's so good."

"As you wish," Tim says, bowing his head and chuckling.

Thus Ginger gorges on Tim's metaphorical flesh as well, Tim telling him not to become too full of himself because of that, Ginger choking on the fucking sashimi and laughing his ass off, John throwing dirty napkins at Tim, Tim stealing the last slice and agreeing with John's assessment entirely.

"How many times do I need to tell you?!" Tim asks, slapping John's hands away. "It is not alive. And it is a cuttlefish."

"Why is it fucking twitching then?"

"Ginger, please, give him a lesson in fucking biology," Tim says, sighing. "This apex predator here is actually starving."

So Ginger explains everything about the nerve endings to John, while Tim gorges on the cuttlefish that is most definitely dead and most definitely not a squid.

When he himself turns into a shark that is most definitely dead, having completed the second part of his plan, having been thoroughly fucked and delightfully insulted and spectacularly caulked by John, having reminded Ginger what he is successfully despite being unable to even talk, having orgasmed like a motherfucker on both their cocks and having smoked his first postcoital cigarette, he lights up another one and addresses the steaming pile of limbs curled around him with yet another proposition of his, John reacting to it by saying he is not a fucking shrimp, demanding he stop calling him that already, Ginger expressing doubt that shrimp burgers are a good idea, but quickly shutting up, Tim explaining to him he is not the chef in here and then, three days later, providing him with soft juicy delicious evidence he conjures for the three of them in the kitchen of the house with a dark room and a pagan temple, all three of them gorging on John's metaphorical flesh, moaning with their mouths full and stuffing their blissful cannibalistic faces.

**Chapter seventeen, in which complicated things are contemplated in a rather bizarre location.**

"What, you want to go too?" Tim says, chuckling, taking out the plates. "You greedy filthy fuck. I could've bet you would."

"Fuck off," John says. "I still cannot believe you actually made him go there."

Tim scoffs.

"That's like the mildest thing I've made him do," he says, putting the cups on the table. "I mean, seriously, come on."

"You made him come in front of other people," John says. "You made him wear fucking clamps outside of the house."

Tim chuckles.

"Fuck, that was yummy," he says, filling up the plates. "He squirmed so much. Fucking jelly."

"Fuck, shut up," John says, trying to steal the cherry tomato.

"You would've made him do that too, if you had the guts," Tim says, slapping his hand away. "Wanna go with us and jerk off to me doing morally questionable things like you love doing so much?"

John throws another tomato at him. Tim catches it and shoves it in his own mouth.

"I'll even let you think your conscience is absolutely clean," Tim says. "Let you keep your illusions."

"Fuck you," John says and takes a sip of his coffee. "It's all on you. I don't wanna force Ginger into doing anything."

"Yeah, you just think he's hot, I know," Tim says, lighting up a cigarette. "Especially when wearing fucking clamps."

John giggles and then bites his lips.

 _Moral fucking sadist_ , Tim thinks.

"So what, wanna join us?" he asks. "You've seen much more disturbing shit already. Let's corrupt you further. And let's fuck you up in there too. You know, greedy cock sucking and everything."

"And you?" John asks, looking up at him with a really unnecessary dare in his eyes.

"And me, of course," Tim nods. "I so need to be fucked up as well. But maybe not as thoroughly as I was the last time. I think that ruined Ginger even more than coming like an idiot for everybody to see."

"Okay," John says. "If Ginj agrees."

Tim chuckles.

"He doesn't need to agree," he says. "But yeah, he will. Ginger's that suicidal."

"He is not suicidal," John objects, Ginger walking slowly into the kitchen, looking around and looking beaten, which this time he actually isn't. " _You_ are fucking suicidal."

"Here," Tim says, giving Ginger the smoke. "Sit down already. I've got news for you."

"Y-yeah?" Ginger asks uncertainly, taking a drag.

"That sex club I'm gonna be fucking you up at this weekend..." Tim starts.

Ginger shivers and licks his lips.

"John's gonna be there too," Tim says, smirking at him. "Feeling excited?"

 _Fucking food_ , Tim thinks, looking at his gulping throat.

"Fuck off," Ginger says and glances at John. "Okay. Alright."

"Cool," Tim says. "Now come on, stuff your faces already. I need to leave in twenty minutes."

Tim gets much more thoroughly fucked up at the sex club than he did during his and Ginger's first visit there, though in a completely different fashion.

Tim stays hungry.

Tim chokes on sugar instead of devouring raw meat.

Tim takes the pair of stupid bastards to the dimly lit establishment and gives them the tour, John enthusiastically pointing at stuff and Ginger blushing furiously despite having already seen most of what John is so enthusiastically pointing at. Tim drags the pair of stupid bastards to the area with couches once all three of them are sufficiently hard. Tim salivates uncontrollably when Ginger starts taking off his clothes, following his orders, shivering slightly and glancing at John now and then, John yet again informing him that everything is okay and that he loves him and that this is really hot. Tim gets a sudden flick on his ugly bloodthirsty snout several seconds later, Ginger finishing undressing and John apparently thinking that this is not just really hot, this is way too hot not to join in, losing his own feathers hastily and pulling the terrified squid into a kiss, pulling him onto the couch as well, pulling him away from Tim, snatching Tim's fucking food. Tim briefly considers starting a revolution, but then just chuckles, his mood switching by magic that definitely exists between the three of them, and watches the stupid kissing moaning bastards fuck right next to him, forgetting about him entirely, Ginger fingering John and John touching Ginger's cock, both red and panting, John proceeding to straddle Ginger's thighs and riding him, being much less reluctant about enjoying his own depravity than Ginger is or rather actually being somewhat depraved, Ginger looking at him with a tender expression on his face, swimming in the pool of chocolate, being at peace with himself, getting repaired, getting whole again, being happy. Tim watches the stupid kissing moaning bastards fuck right next to him on the couch in the dimly lit room full of strangers, all three of them forgetting about that fact entirely, the pair of bastards too absorbed in each other and Tim completely lost right next to them, completely lost _in_ them, swimming in the ocean he still cannot believe he is actually allowed to be swimming in. Tim watches the stupid kissing moaning bastards fuck right next to him and come one after another, Tim promptly making his own efforts in the spirit of camaraderie and coming in his own pants. Tim watches the stupid kissing moaning bastards exchange eternal love confessions, exhaling that pretty normal love into each other's mouths, sitting there soaked in his own junk, being the most fucked up among the three of them, being the most fucked up person in the room, feeling guilty about it and being proud of it at the same time.

Tim takes the pair of really, really stupid bastards who also feel guilty for abandoning him like that to another dimly lit establishment, dancing with them in there for fourteen billion years, poisoning them with his radiation, drowning them in blood, drowning them in both types of his love, neither of which is even close to normal, hugging them and being hugged by them, suspending them in thin air and suspended there himself, John's feathery scraf wrapped like a noose around all three of their necks.

A week after that Tim gets to have his meal.

Tim takes the pair of reckless bastards to the dimly lit establishment again and this time makes Ginger do things John absolutely wouldn't make him do, because it is not like he really wants to, because it is not like he doesn't have a moral compass, though now skewed by Tim as well. Tim makes Ginger undress and makes him stretch himself, standing on his knees in front of him, looking up at him with illegal devotion, glancing sideways at John with ridiculous doubt, letting Tim slap his face, letting Tim make him cry, and makes him ride himself backwards, Tim's old ininviting, forbidding bones providing no convenience and no support, Tim himself allowing him the only comfort of looking at John's pretty face while he does it, and makes him come like an idiot, pulling at his hair and forcing him to arch his back with impossible vertebrae, talking about what that biological incongruity inspires him to consider and swallowing Ginger's unlawful responsive moans, and makes him make himself come as well, pushing his half-eaten body up and down and swallowing Ginger's love confessions and offering him his own, and makes him make John come too, makes him suck John off, makes John undone and complicit, and makes peace with all of that, looking at the pair of really, really stupid bastards looking back at him, eyes wet and lips curved in illegal smiles, accepting him for what he is and letting him commit atrocities in the ocean, being dumb and being beautiful, Tim himself being guilty without any doubt, being broken, being whole, being happy, being euphoric, being a monster to them, being a deeply loved monster and, with any luck, enough of a deeply loving one as well.

**Chapter eighteen, in which the scale of space itself changes.**

"Slap me," Tim manages, lifting his head off the bed and looking at John's beautiful frowning face, feeling like a shark jelly being stirred in a pot, sweaty and panting and rapidly becoming undone by John's heavenly cruel hands. "Fuck, slap me now. Chop me. Wreck me. Ruin me."

John bites his lip and slaps him across the face several times somewhat awkwardly, drawing a pathetic moan and a subsequent body shattering orgasm out of Tim, Tim convulsing in front of him, holding his legs open, pressing into the mattress, clenching, suffering and feeling positively _sliced_.

"Jesus, you are so good at this," he says, voice coming out unfamiliar, his even more foreign limbs falling helplessly on the mattress. "Come on, fuck me now. Fuck my repulsive hole."

John whines through gritted teeth and flips his depleted carcass over with no help from the owner, the said owner being delightfully fisted to death, and indeed fucks his repulsive hole, coming within seconds, shaking and heavy on top of him, pushing his head into the pillow and swearing constantly, directing his usual anal obliteration talk at Tim and being really accurate for once.

"You're a God, John," Tim says, kissing John's celestial fingers and accepting the cigarette he shoves in his mouth with immense gratitude. "I'll worship you forever."

"Fuck you," John says, lying down next to him and shoving chocolate in his own mouth. "I want bribery for looking at your disgusting ass."

"Hm," Tim hums. "Let me guess, you want your divine opening to be demolished as well."

John giggles.

"Okay," Tim says, puffing out the smoke.

"And three days of Nice Tim."

"Fuck," Tim says. "You make me feel like a currency. I like it. Two days."

"Three days. You just said I was a God. Three days."

"Greedy bastard," Tim says. "Three days, but we do your favorite double penetration my way."

John eyes him suspiciously for a few moments.

"How?"

"Well, I want to be the lazy one for once," Tim says. "I wanna lie on my back and look at your inner demon getting free when you come."

"No," John says. "Ginger's gonna freak out."

"Ginger's also gonna be the lazy one," Tim says. "You're gonna be doing the moving."

"I... I don't think I can," John says. "That sounds painful."

"Yeah," Tim says.

"Fuck you," John says, sticking his tongue out at him.

"You know, for a guy who is in a relationship with a pushy homicidal sadist you kinda don't get hurt enough," Tim says, trying to pull his nose.

John slaps his hand away.

"Come on," Tim says. "It'll be cool. Really filthy. And I'll help you, of course. We'll bond over our shared experience and everything. You'll love it."

"Will you cook your disgusting meat thing for me afterwards?" John asks.

"Sure," Tim nods, offering him a toothy smile.

"Alright," John says, licking his lips. "Deal. Let's snuggle now."

Tim ends up having to do a lot of work to be the lazy one for once.

First he has to conduct many unscientific experiments to determine how many hours before the beginning of the ass demolition process he and Ginger have to jerk off not to come in their pants while Tim stretches John's divine opening with dildos, but to come soon enough after John does to actually have him stay impaled on their cocks till all three of them are done, Tim having made this proposition to John and having explained that this is what constitutes a proper double penetration, John seeing reason after a while and seeing to that he gets not three, but five days of Nice Tim for being so accommodating.

Then, once that piece of data is collected and processed, he has to listen to Ginger's whining, Ginger informing him he doesn't want John to get hurt, as if Tim thought otherwise, Tim telling him he won't, or rather won't _much_ , John helping him out a bit, Tim fully convincing Ginger by saying that he should stop being so jealous, adding that if Ginger wants him to he can stuff his tight shitty orifice with three fucking cocks next time he feels like having a meal, Ginger shivering and saying that wasn't what he meant, John telling Tim to fuck off and hugging Ginger, doing his whispery thing while Tim washes the traumatized dildos.

Then, once the poor things are clean and ready for use, he has to stretch John with them before having him impaled on Ginger's and his own aching cocks, leaking on the floor and muttering, thinking he might have miscalculated and wondering if this special lazy occasion will ever be repeated, Ginger hugging John this time, soothing him and calming him down, telling him what Tim wants to do to him to stop John from orgasming on the spot, Tim feeling both extremely ashamed and extremely proud of his evil imaginary transgressions, John whimpering and whining and moaning and wriggling and telling Ginger he loves him and telling Tim he's sick and tearing the universe apart with sounds that Tim knows no name for, but is very good at inspiring.

Then he finally gets to lie on the bed and be somewhat lazy, gripping his own and Ginger's cock with one of his heartless hands and nudging John to sink down on them with another one, Ginger shaking behind John's back, but actually being not entirely useless, holding John's shoulder and giving Tim a helping tentacle, guiding their cocks in John's hole, John staring at Tim, looking beautiful and really overwhelmed, lowering himself on their kernels and destroying the macrocosm again once he's successfull.

Tim doesn't become completely lazy after that breakthrough either, and Ginger is also not absolved of all duty. Tim jerks his hips upwards carefully and Ginger moves his own slowly and John rocks his ideal ones uncertainly, Tim greeting his inner demon after just a few seconds of that and starting a casual conversation with him, telling John how much he likes it when _he_ is the one being impaled on cocks, how much he enjoys John's angry hands holding him down and John's furious thrusts positively destroying his hole and John's pretty mouth insulting him and making the experience truly spectacular, praising John for being such a willing and such a talented personal tormentor, John shaking on top of him, first in denial, then in extreme fury and in extreme arousal, looking like he is about to come and to throttle him at the same time, further proving his point, orgasming beautifully, convulsing on his and Ginger's cocks, shattering marble shell and exposed obsidian core and bittersweet whining, Ginger following him promptly, engulfing him in his tender boliling plasma and in his love, supporting him with his shaking tentacles while Tim fucks into him for another short string of seconds, John whispering in his ear he'll chop him, he'll wreck him, he'll ruin him for this, he'll take his revenge and turn him into a shark sashimi, Tim laughing in his ear and saying he'll be waiting for that blessed day with nuclear fluttering in his chest and a sharp knife he'll buy for him himself.

"Why do _we_ want it?" Tim asks quite some time later, chuckling, puffing out the smoke and lying there on the bed next to talkative and really affectionate mortal remains, having lain there puffing out the smoke for a while already, the talkative remains doing their whispery thing, Tim not paying much attention to them until their conversation takes a curious turn, Ginger once again expressing his timid, vexatious wishes to go through the same anal torture John's just thoroughly enjoyed, John once again asking Tim to try achieving that impossible goal with Ginger's happiness in mind, Tim once again stating that he would love nothing more, but wouldn't know how to do that, unless this Ginger could be switched with another one from a different universe that hasn't been annihilated by John's sound production, with one who's understood what asses were for earlier in life and under different circumstances, with one who doesn't come all over himself at the touch of Tim's heartless fingers, with one who wasn't broken by him, John telling him to fuck off and Ginger telling him to fuck off and Tim wondering out loud why Ginger even wants it, adding that it is not like he isn't being ruined enough, Ginger once again saying two words he doesn't mean and never meant and asking Tim why he and John want it in return.

"Why do _we_ want it?" Tim asks, chuckling. "Well, John here gets off on his own depravity and additionally amuses himself by entertaining a ridiculous idea that he's just as good at being a filthy deviant as I am, a greedy competitve fuck he is."

Ginger sighs and John says the same two words Ginger did and means them, but not entirely wholeheartedly, suffering some of Ginger's disturbing attachment as well.

"And I want it because it hurts like fuck if done right and because me cheerfully hopping on your cocks fucking devastates both of you every time I do it, though for entirely different reasons, and I fucking love being hurt and being a cause of a disaster, a horrifying perverted monster I am," Tim says, ignoring the reaction of talkative remains to his previous assessment.

"Fucking hell, Tim," Ginger says.

"I kinda know why you want it too, actually," Tim continues, dodging John's kicking feet. "It's because you love us and want to give that love of yours to us and want to feel as close as you can to us and if you could you, of course, would just turn inside out for us, but since it is impossible and only one of us actually wants that from you, you opt for the next best option. Something like that. Does it ring a bell?"

"Fuck you, Tim," Ginger whispers, shivering, surprised by sudden presence of Tim's teeth in his body.

Tim laughs.

"John, hand my breakfast over to me, please," he says, propping himself on one elbow. "I'll provide my scarce comfort."

The talkative remains shift, Ginger's plasma pressing into Tim instead of John's mixture of naturally occuring solid masses, Tim wrapping his heartless hands around him and exhaling the radioactive gas into his hair.

"Alright," he says, sighing. "Let's try and give you what you deserve. But we all have to agree here it is going to be a one-off exercise and the finish line is not going to be drawn right after Ginger's orgasm, because otherwise it's just not gonna happen. Okay?"

"Sure," Ginger breathes out.

"John?"

"Fuck," John says, sighing too. "Okay. But no fucking craziness of yours."

"Of course," Tim says. "I'll collect all my niceness for this. I am really against anal fissures and this is risky enough without me being a dreadful creature. Don't worry."

"Alright," John says.

"Thank you," Ginger says.

"Fucking shut up already and let's sleep," Tim says.

Tim and John conduct their unscientific research the next week, collecting the necessary data to facilitate the proceedings without torturing Ginger for way too long or failing to achieve the desired end at all.

Ginger spends three more days at John's house to be as stable as he can be for the event, as far away as possible from Tim's destructive influence.

The three of them kiss for fourteen billion years beforehand, going through all possible combinations, including the geometrically complex one that leaves all three of them laughing. Then Tim implores Ginger to refrain from crying this one time, doing it grudgingly, with a supreme goal in mind. Then John holds Ginger's tender tentacles in his own celestial hands and Tim stretches Ginger's scared hole with a dildo, Ginger coming all over himself the moment Tim's currently not even so heartless fingers press into him alongside it, offering Tim his confessions once again and asking him to do the very thing Tim shouldn't be allowed to do, telling him he loves him and asking him to hold him, crying despite Tim's previous atypical pleading, but luckily not for long, Tim displaying more of his uncharacteristically nice behaviour and keeping his hungry trap shut tight, keeping his jaws glued together, keeping his lips sewn to one another, letting Ginger breathe, letting John soothe him. Then, when Ginger deceptively looks like enough of an unscathed person again, Tim continues with his stretching task, Ginger breathing and slipping into pathetic moaning, John soothing him and slipping into sweet whining, neither sound being any help to Tim, Tim still being enough of an expert on torment and successfully impaling Ginger first on two dildos and then on his own and John's cocks without any anal fissures or other unfortunate consequences, Ginger shattering and shuddering and in an endless fall between Tim and John, suspended in thin air by their four hands, turning inside out for them and stubbornly crying again and not even breathing anymore, first John doing it for him, breathing into his mouth, exhaling his famous support and his pretty normal love into his gulping throat, coming inside him, being as close to him as possible, then Tim doing the same, breathing into his mouth, exhaling his deadly ball of nuclear gas and his terrifying affection into his gulping throat he ripped open, coming inside him, being impossibly close to him, swallowing him whole, containing him within with all his uncontainable love and being uncontainable himself.

The universe gets born that day.

**Chapter nineteen, in which all rivers lead to the underworld.**

"Alright, I really need to tell you this," Tim says at the beginning of hour nine, sighing and sitting up. "I've got a weird kink."

Certain things happen before that.

At the beginning of hour minus one Tim returns back home and enters the room and approaches the couch the stupid kissing bastards are snuggling on and puts his hands on Ginger's shoulders and bends slightly and opens his mouth wide and sticks his tongue out and shows him what the little devils have brought him for being their master and Ginger smiles and nods.

A second later John is shouting at them, berating their repulsive and dangerous drug addiction.

A minute after that Tim offers him to be a supervisor of their trip.

Up until hour zero Tim explains to John that yes, it is twelve hours long, but no, it is not boring, because they will be just doing whatever they intended to do originally, only finding a deeper meaning in it and looking dumb, and yes, they will be willing to listen to his shredding for the quarter of their journey, but no, it is probably better to postpone the geometrically complex sexual activites till another time on account of being stoned.

At hour zero Tim and Ginger drop acid.

A second later Tim leaves the stupid kissing bastards to snuggle on the couch and goes to the kitchen to grab a bite before the dope kicks in.

A minute later the stupid kissing bastards follow him there like fucking ducklings and tell him they are hungry too, again like fucking ducklings.

Thirty minutes after that all three of them stuff their faces without using any forks.

At the beginning of hour one Tim and Ginger listen to John's annoying shredding, being somewhat stoned.

At the beginning of hour two Tim and Ginger listen to John's fascinating shredding, being substantially more stoned.

At the beginning of hour three Tim and Ginger listen to John's mind-blowing, breathtaking, awe inspiring, spiritually moving shredding, being absolutely, categorically, unequivocally, unquestionably wasted.

At the beginning of hour four Tim and Ginger are still listening to John's fucking shredding, John being a sly manipulative greedy bastard, Tim and Ginger being dumb gullible easily suggestible stoned fucks.

At the beginning of hour five they are thirty minutes into watching a movie on account of John still not being even close to Tim's level of cunning and rapacity despite Tim's wasted state, Tim catching him in the act of stirring their trip in an egotistical direction and threatening to throw away his guitar and being particularly scary and impressive despite or because of his wasted state, Ginger just lying on the floor while they fight and being nothing, not his support team, not complicit, not even stoned, being entirely unpresent.

At the beginning of hour six the movie is over and Tim and Ginger are engaged in a lively discussion of metaphysics and its application to the lives of sea creatures surrounding them, while John is bored and pouting and insisting there aren't any sea fucking creatures in here, clearly being wrong or possibly even blind.

At the beginning of hour seven all three of them are in the kitchen again, the stupid kissing bastards stuffing their faces once more, Tim thinking he is a culinary genius even in his wasted state and actually being wrong about it or possibly even temporarily blind, because if his previous self had seen what he put on the plates he most definitely would've shot himself in his dope head, the stupid kissing bastards still calling him a shark god of the ocean, being unaware of his downfall on account of being stupid.

At the beginning of hour eight Tim gets really tired of John's attempts to engage him and Ginger in  
geometrically complex sexual activities that both Tim and Ginger deem not a good idea even in their wasted state, being surprisingly reasonable, and ransacks the house looking for weed.

Ten minutes later he shoves the joint in John's protesting mouth.

In the middle of hour eight all three of them are lying on the floor in a circle, their heads touching, limbs thrown wide, Tim and Ginger listening to John's fascinating stories about the extremely hilarious sea creatures he sees around them, wondering what drugs he is on, forgetting what drugs they are on, all three of them being magnificently stoned.

At the beginning of hour nine Tim sighs and sits up, turning to look at the stupid kissing bastards.

"Alright, I really need to tell you this," he says. "I've got a weird kink."

There is a pause after that.

Then John starts laughing, shaking on the floor.

Then Ginger starts laughing, shaking on the floor.

Then the neurons finally fire in Tim's dope shark mind and he chuckles too, increasing the camaraderie in the room.

"Fuck you," he says. "Okay, I've got many weird kinks. But there is this relatively new one I kinda really need to tell you about."

Then Ginger nods and John nods and Ginger sits up and John sits up as well, and they stare at him with blurry eyes.

"I want John to..." Tim starts, sounding appallingly insecure. "I want John to cut my cock off and shove it in my mouth and bury me alive."

There is another pause after that.

Then John starts laughing, shaking above the floor.

Then John notices that he is alone in that.

"Fuck," he says, stopping abruptly. "Are you serious?"

Tim tilts his head and squints at him. Ginger puts his face in his hands.

"Fuck," John says. "You are serious."

"Fuck," John says again, looking at Ginger who is peeking at the world through his fingers. "He is fucking serious."

Ginger whines.

"Jesus," Tim says. "Of course, I am serious. Why are you so suddenly surprised now?"

"Fucking hell," John says. "Are you crazy? I don't want to cut your damn cock off."

"I am not saying you actually need to," Tim says, sighing. "I kinda want to keep my cock too. For all the _angry_ pounding on all fours and filling your pretty mouth with junk you love so much. For all the reckless fecal-oral transmission we engage in with squid here. For jerking off alone and miserable in the room while you furry fucks are on tour."

"Fucking hell, Tim," Ginger says. "I don't want you to be buried alive. I fucking love you."

Tim scoffs.

"I won't actually be buried alive, you idiot," he says. "Look, I don't even want to be buried _dead_. I want my horrible body to be donated to science once I expire. Or cremated, if nobody wants me. So like, if you still haven't run away from me when that happens and see to that, I won't be buried at all, okay?"

"Fuck," Ginger says. "Okay. Can you stop talking about being dead now? It's freaking me out."

Tim chuckles.

"Relax," he says, crawling closer to Ginger. "Want me to put my head in your lap and let you look at my ugly mug?"

Ginger nods and Tim lies down.

"So what do you actually want to do?" John asks. "Fuck, now we're fucking talking about it."

Tim smirks.

"Well, I'm not sure for now," he starts. "I mean, dealing with my redundant cock should be easy enough. I'm thinking, maybe ice or a local anesthetic or just a cock cage if you're shitting your pants now."

"Fuck you," John says.

"And anyway, I've gotten really good at just imagining it's gone once I am neglected enough," Tim continues, ignoring him, Ginger's tender tentacle trembling slightly on his shoulder. "It's the burial I am kinda worried about. Like, how about we buy some soil and I lie in a tub and you thr—"

"Fuck, Tim," Ginger says, his trembling tentacle now gripping Tim's shoulder tight.

"No," John says, his magical spaghetti fingers jabbing Tim's horrible body. "That's fucking sick."

"Yeah, thought you would fucking object," Tim says, sighing.

"It's dangerous," John says, squinting at him.

"Not really," Tim says. "I mean, compared to some other stuff we do it's actually pretty safe. Your favorite bondage can easily go _seriously_ wrong. Not to mention that delightful waterboarding you've finally performed on me. Or do you think it's completely alright to repeatedly shove my head in the bathtub and keep it under water? I am not really a shark. I don't have gills."

Ginger shivers.

"We're not doing that again," John says. "And we're not doing the soil either. I don't want you to suffocate."

"Oh, no, I planned to have my dumb head above the ground," Tim says. "For observation. But whatever, forget the soil. I mean, you'd also start whining afterwards about me being dirty and so on. I have another idea."

"Fuck," John says. "Okay. What idea?"

"Remember that apron you had to wear at the dentist's for the x-ray last week?" Tim asks. "We can throw several of those on my horrible body. They are heavy. And clean. And contain lead. Which is kinda fitting, me being a radioactive bastard and all."

John hums. Ginger sighs.

"That..." John starts. "That seems alright."

"Cool," Tim says. "And if it sucks I can always go ask some professionals for advice. There should be one or two other nutcases who get off on this stuff."

John laughs.

"What will you even get off on?" he asks. "Fuck, you are weird."

"Oh, let me explain," Tim readily replies. "So I'll lie there incapacitated and unable to move and caulked with your underwear and preferably cockless as well and you'll do some boring sugary fucking right above my head. Like, suck each other's cocks or something. Ignoring me. And I'll be doing my vile imagining and getting off on being so offensively neglected."

"Fucking hell, Tim," Ginger says. "I don't want you getting off on the idea of being buried alive. It is fucking sick."

Tim chuckles and looks up at him.

"You're kinda late," he says, sneering. "I've been getting off on that for quite a while. I just want to upgrade the arrangement."

"Fuck," John yelps. "What do you mean you've been getting off on that? When?"

Tim snorts and turns his head towards him.

"When I am tied up and incapacitated and unable to move and caulked with your underwear and denied touching you or looking at you, for example?"

"Jesus fucking Christ," John says, rubbing his face. "Are you serious?"

"I am always serious," Tim says. "What did you fucking think I was getting off on?"

"Fuck, how would I know?" John says. "You're weird. Stuff you're into is weird. I don't fucking get most of it."

"I really should put more effort in your education," Tim says. "Well, that's exactly what I am getting off on. It's like a... a sexy panic attack."

Ginger whines.

"God," he says. "How can a panic attack be sexy?"

"Now _you_ need explanations as well?" Tim asks, scoffing. "Remind me to torture you more."

"Fuck you," Ginger says. "Fuck you, Tim."

"Fuck, seriously, what are you even talking about?" John asks.

"Okay, alright, fine," Tim says. "Let me tutor you, you morons."

The morons look at him expectantly. Tim runs his tongue over his teeth a couple of times, collecting his thoughts.

"Well, I clearly have anger management problems," he starts. "So like in the beginning I look at you going at it and get aroused and then extremely pissed off that I am not allowed to join you. Like, really furious at you fucks for daring to ignore me while I am in the room. As if you have that right, you know."

"Fucking hell," John says and jabs him with his fingers again. "I do have a right to ignore you all I want. Ginger does ha—"

Tim laughs out loud, shaking in Ginger's lap.

"Ginger's my fucking food," he says, looking up at the delicacy with a smirk. "He doesn't have any rights."

The delicacy bites his lips and shivers delicately. Tim takes his hand in his own and kisses it, winking at him.

"Fuck," John says.

" _Your_ exact status is a bit more complicated," Tim continues, chuckling. "Which doesn't matter anyway. I am talking about what's in my head, you know."

"Fuck," John says. "Okay. Whatever. So you get angry and then what?"

"Then I gradually come to an understanding that it's all my fault because I've been a terrible asshole to you two for no reason whatsoever," Tim goes on. "So I start feeling guilty and think that I deserve to be neglected like that, and then my abandonment issues kick in, and I start imagining what is to be done to me for being such a shit."

Ginger gulps.

"Yeah, swallow those objections," Tim says. "I _am_ a fucking shit. Right, John?"

"You are," John says.

"Thanks," Tim says. "Anyway, I start imagining how I should be disposed of and denied coming anywhere near you two, because you deserve happiness and I only cause misery, and then, because I am a giant sadomasochist, I have this sexy panic attack and feel like I am just made of pain and gonna stay like that forever, since I am forlorn and forsaken."

There is a pause after that.

"That's what I am getting off on," Tim concludes.

"Tim," Ginger whispers. "Can I... Can I—"

"What?" Tim says, chuckling and sitting up. "Overwhelmed by your stupid fucking love again? Look at John. He wants to throttle me. That's much more germane."

"Fuck off," Ginger says.

"Come here," Tim says, shaking his head. "I'll suck your idiotic face."

They kiss, Ginger breathing into his mouth, Tim feeling John's cruel fingers poking him, jumping a little at every touch, John giggling obnoxiously.

"So what?" Tim says, pulling away and looking at the stupid bastards. "Now that you're both well informed, can I order some lead aprons online?"

"Fuck, okay," John says. "Let's try this weird fucking thing of yours. Ginj, are yo—"

"Ginj doesn't need to answer," Tim interjects.

"Fuck you," Ginger says. "Alright. Let's do it."

"Awesome," Tim says. "Wanna go have boring sex now? If you fucks are up to it."

The fucks inform him that they are, so at the beginning of hour ten all three of them are in bed, jerking each other off like dumb teenagers, struggling to come, being distracted by the sea creatures that decide to visit them once more, and at the beginning of hour eleven John is gorging on cookies, being the only one who has achieved orgasm, and Ginger is smoking and squirming next to Tim, being miserable and still hard and as delicious as always, and Tim is smoking and salivating and toying with Ginger's cock, ignoring his own, because it is not like he needs it, and at the beginning of hour twelve all three of them are fast asleep, a wasted pile of limbs.

Several days later Tim suffers through an absolutely glorious sexy panic attack, lying there on the bed, tied up and covered in lead aprons, incapacitated and desolate and cockless and forgotten, caulked with John's underwear and staring at its owner sucking Ginger's awesome cock right above his head and causing Ginger to chant his name in a broken voice and swallowing him down and then shifting and placing his knees around Tim's face and spreading his cheeks and asking Ginger to finger him and coming with a filthy moan and clenching for fourteen billiong years and giggling obnoxiously for a few seconds, being Tim's personal cute little sadist, and then going into shock seeing Tim already chilling out there and Ginger joining them promptly, both him and John falling down next to him and pulling the aprons off him and hugging his radioactive sausage of a body and telling him they love him and asking if he wants anything, Tim hyperventilating and terrified and made of pain and thinking he deserves all of that and thinking he doesn't deserve any of this and feeling blessed and feeling damned and knowing he shouldn't be allowed to be here, but staying nevertheless, being tied up and whining and unable to move, telling John not to touch his unnecessary cock after John pulls his underwear out of his mouth and letting Ginger suck his undorgivable face for fourteen billion years, a source of misery with a handful of weird kinks between two criminally happy idiots in love.

**Chapter twenty, in which the feast is over, long live the feast.**

"Sure," Tim says. "Need you ask."

Tim says "sure" and they go to have a short vacation in France before the stupid kissing moaning bastards turn into appalling furry vultures once again and abandon him once more, going on the European tour they are so dead set on doing.

Tim says "sure" and they spend ten days in southern France, driving from one fishing village to the next, running one after another on multiple beaches, getting second-degree burns on the parts of their bodies Tim has never thought they even had, passing out in the car and in the tent and in the hotels Tim is actually surprised they were allowed to even come close to, coming like motherfuckers in the car and in the tent and in the hotels Tim is actually surprised they were not thrown out of on multiple occasions, burying each other in the sand and getting hard because of Tim, shoving each other's heads into the salty water and keeping them there and getting hard because of Tim, feeding each other poor unsuspecting sea dwelling creatures and getting hard because of Tim, getting insulted by waiters speaking the language of love because of Tim and because of Ginger and because of John, all three of them being equally disgusting at the table, Tim gnawing on Ginger from time to time, being the most disgusting in that, being unparalleled at that, being cruel, John caulking his hungry trap from time to time, being the most whiney about that, being the most responsible about that, being kind, Ginger swimming into his hungry trap himself, being the most accommodating in that, being the most frightening because of that, being loved, Tim thinking he absolutely must survive this temporary parting that's ahead of them, he absolutely must carry on with all his other diabolical plans, he absolutely must cause all the disasters he for some reason is allowed to cause.

John stays on the beach, a guitar in his hands, surrounded by ladies who understand pretty well what he's talking about and are impressed by his magical spaghetti fingers even more.

Tim and Ginger drag the obnoxious inflatable mattress John'd developed a longing for overnight and then never even got on once Tim bought for him into the sea and swim forever, pushing it forward, swim for fourteen billion years and for fourteen billion miles.

Tim and Ginger drag their wet, old, tired, broken bodies onto it and lie down, facing each other, getting incinerated by the light of the ball of boiling plasma held together by its own gravity shining mercilessly above their reckless heads.

Tim looks at Ginger, at his idiotic face and at his forbidden throat and at his rib cage he's been sticking his heartless hands into for fuck knows how long and at his inc sac he pulled out of him and at his awesome fucking cock getting hard, Ginger illegal breath landing on Tim's shark snout covered in blood, a thermonuclear grin playing on his lips.

"Come on," he says. "We are in the middle of the Mediterranean fucking Sea here. Nobody will see us. Give me your goddamn cock."

Ginger shivers and slowly pulls himself out of his swimming trunks, gasping when Tim wraps his fingers around him.

Tim plays with him until his eyes turn into two black holes on his red, blushing, sunburnt face.

Tim licks his palm repeatedly, collecting the salt off it and swallowing it down.

Tim looks at Ginger and gnaws on him in the middle of the Mediterranean Sea.

Tim looks at Ginger, eyes lingering on his parted lips, and Ginger shudders, and Ginger moans, and Ginger opens his soft warm mouth for him.

Tim laughs at him.

"Fuck, you look dumb like that," he says. "So beautiful."

And Ginger shudders again and Ginger moans again and Tim jerks him off in the middle of the Mediterranean Sea.

"Fuck, I want you so much," Tim says. "Fuck, Ginger. I want you."

And the salty water level starts to rise around them.

"I've never wanted anybody like that in my entire life," Tim says.

And Ginger says John's name.

"Sure I want John too," Tim says, chuckling. "But that's different."

And Ginger asks him a question.

"I want every elementary particle of you, Ginger," Tim says, answering him. "I want you to death, Ginger. I like... _want_ want you."

And Ginger laughs softly.

"What do _you_ want?" Tim asks his own question. "What do you actually want, Ginger?"

And Ginger lets him eat him.

"I keep thinking about it, you know," Tim says. "I mean, you clearly don't want any of this. You don't want what I am doing to you."

"Fuck off," Ginger says. "I like what you are doing to me."

"Of course you _like_ what I am doing to you," Tim says, smirking. "I fucking made sure of that."

Ginger gulps.

"But you don't really want it," Tim continues. "These are all my desires, and I know it. Tell me, what do _you_ want, Ginger?"

"I want you to kiss me," Ginger says.

"Nah," Tim says, shaking his head. "Thought of it. I mean yes, you want to kiss me and to touch me with your stupid scared hands and to look at me when you fuck me on my back and to live in our house with a dark room and a pagan temple with me and to read tedious books with me and to sit in the kitchen with me and get in the way and play with fucking forks."

"Fuck you," Ginger says. "I want you to kiss me now."

"That can wait," Tim says. "My hungry fucking trap is really occupied at the moment."

And Ginger shudders once more and moans once more.

"So yes, you want all of that, of course," Tim goes on, sinking his teeth into him. "But that's not it. It's all... It's all too much, Ginger. It's not even that that you want, Ginger. It's something else. Something even more... scary. So come on, tell me. Tell me the truth, Ginger. What do you actually want from me?"

"Fuck, Tim," Ginger says. "I love you."

"That I am well aware of," Tim says, letting go of his cock and licking his palm again. "That's what you want to give _to_ me. I am asking you, what do you want _from_ me?"

And Ginger gets broken in the middle of the Mediterranean Sea.

"Come on, Ginger," Tim says, wrapping his wet palm around his cock again. "Tell me the truth and come for me."

And Ginger turns into nothing in the middle of the Mediterranean Sea.

"Tell me what you want, Ginger," Tim says, jerking him off. "Tell me what you want and let me finally eat you."

And Ginger gets eaten in the middle of the Mediterranean Sea.

"Oh fuck," Ginger says, crying and moaning pathetically. "I want to be near you, Tim."

"Oh my God," Ginger says, crying and shaking like an epileptic. "I just want to be near you, Tim."

Ginger comes in Tim's fist in the middle of the Mediterranean Sea and Tim grabs his tender loving tentacle with his heartless hand and puts it over his own chest, pressing over it, witnessing the singularity, having it inside him, feeling it touching that appalling, wretched thing that is going off, poisoning everything around them.

"Fuck," Tim says. "You're done, aren't you, Ginj? I'm finished with you. There is nothing left of you anymore."

And Ginger nods, crying and moaning pathetically and shaking like an epileptic in the middle of the Mediterranean Sea.

And Tim purrs.

"Tim," Ginger whispers. "What are you gonna do now?"

"Tim," Ginger whispers. "Are you gonna throw me away?"

And Tim laughs out loud, shaking in the middle of the Mediterranean fucking Sea.

"Jesus, Ginger," he says. "Of course not. Of course I am not gonna throw you away."

And Tim kisses Ginger in the middle of the vastness of the ocean.

Tim kisses Ginger for fourteen billion years.

"Then what..." Ginger whispers again. "Then what are you gonna do?"

"Hm," Tim says, sitting up and pushing Ginger off the mattress and falling off it himself. "I think I'll start all over again."

"I'll just start all over again, Ginger," Tim says, placing his wet hands on Ginger's wet shoulders and looking at his dumb beautiful wet face. "Provided you want some company."

And Ginger nods and Tim smiles and pulls him down, pulls him under water, and they get lost together on the bottom of their natural habitat.

They get lost on the bottom of the hot, bright, uncontainable sea.

\----------------------------


End file.
